


Beyond Your Faded Glory

by dragonagemage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (lyrium) addiction, Angst, Cullen negative, F/M, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Slow Burn, So much angst, now with Extra Angst and Even More Drama, possibly OOC characters but I try, redemption arc (sort of), trauma mention, villain characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 34,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonagemage/pseuds/dragonagemage
Summary: They clashed, and he lost.It was as simple as that; her fury was indeed like that of the Maker, the Maker he didn't believe in, as she stripped him of his power and his agony both, with determination in her eyes that he was certain could level armies.Raleigh Samson and Amelia Trevelyan are both broken in their own way. Each firmly believes that they do not deserve happiness. Yet either fate or chance has decreed that their paths should cross. But the sympathy that grew into loyalty, admiration that just may grow into love? That was all them. Every yearned-for kiss.





	1. Faith of the Lost

**Author's Note:**

> After replaying Inquisition, I finally decided to write this. Please note that this story is tagged as "Cullen negative," and it is tagged so for good reason. I would like to note that I still respect everyone's preferences, favorites, and ships, and I am writing this warning so you could avoid Cullen-negative content if you do not wish to see it. This story may also at times mention discrimination, and will obviously at times mention/deal with (lyrium) addiction. Now that you've been warned, if you've still decided to stick around...enjoy!

It was a long time since Samson ceased being a man of faith. Somewhere between the first time he'd heard a mage scream, and his first two weeks on the streets of Kirkwall. Yet, looking at the map before him, marking the Inquisitor's progress through Emprise du Lion, his hands trembled just a little. He hated himself for it, adding it to the long list of things he hated himself for.

'They took the Tower of Bone a fortnight ago. She's been moving troops in ever since,' elegant, flowing handwriting declared. It was only a matter of time before Suledin would fall.

Suledin. Perseverance, if Samson remembered correctly. What bitter irony. Mind you, Samson was not given to study of elvish, but a man could overhear anything at the Gallows, bits and pieces, and he would dedicate all this attention to it as means of remaining blind to the things that happened there. Samson never liked blinding himself to those things. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps everything would hurt less, if he stayed faithful, if he'd come to heel when called as Cullen did.

Cullen. Inquisitor's commander. Her shining beacon of faith and dedication, her beloved. Together, they were an example to Thedas. Something for the starry-eyed youth to aspire to. Samson reigned in his sudden need to spit. He balled his hands into fists.  
It was the red, he firmly decided. That's how it started, the tremors. The things on the edge of hearing.  
Maddox' vacant eyes met his. He knew that the tranquil was probably wondering about the same thing, though in a far more logical manner. How did the Inquisitor manage to make such progress? Was it the faithfulness of her troops? Her supply lines? How?  
He's been throwing everything he had at her - knights, archers, shadows, behemoths. Still, she continued marching forward like the fury of the Maker, cut through his troops like they were nothing, no more than pebbles at the mercy of a sea storm.  
_What if...? Perhaps..._  


Samson shook his head, sweeping the maps aside to make room for new plans of battle.  
She was a mortal woman. A woman of considerable prowess and commanding presence, yes, but no more than that.  
She would clash with him, and he was determined that she would lose.


	2. Pride and Sympathy

"The circumstances surrounding his death are a stain on this Inquisition!"

Cullen's voice was harsh, laden with venom, anger, and hurt pride.

Amelia was tired. Of it all.

She leaned heavily on the war table, eyes deliberately fixed on the map and not straying to Cullen's which were, she was certain, blazing with anger.  
She had faced that too often over the past several months, and it began with her recruitment of mages. Whatever she'd decided, Cullen was there to oppose her. Or at least it felt like that.

"I couldn't strike, unprovoked, at someone who just wanted to talk."  
" _It_ , not a someone!"  
Cullen's venom-filled reply made her shoulders sag further.  
"There was a chance he could remove the lyrium corruption. I couldn't just..."  
"Nothing is worth negotiating with a demon!"  
She fell silent. It was becoming way too much for her to bear. She was...tired.  
"Cullen, I..." she sighed, at a loss for words. The night they danced at Halamshiral seemed so long ago. Drained, she turned to leave, heading for her quarters.

Closing and barring the door - leaving all her problems outside, at least symbolically, the Inquisitor was happy to curl amidst the numerous pillows (a vice of hers, Josephine would joke), a glass of honeyed wine on her night stand, and the letters from Sahrnia in her hand. The more she argued with Cullen, the more she'd taken to reading them. What kind of a man was Samson, she wondered. Was it someone Cullen judged and found wanting, like her?  
Her thoughts wandered to her previous talks with her commander. How ardent his belief that mages should be leashed. That they - that she - wasn't able, or ought not to be allowed, to make her own decisions, that both she and others needed protection - from themselves. How ardent his belief that _he_ was the protector.  


Was it so hard to believe that mages were people? That they deserved at least the basic respect one should have for any person?  
How many people had he failed to see as human, thanks to the fear which the Chantry preached?  
She recalled their talk about Maddox vividly. Cullen thought he was "eking out a living on the streets of Kirkwall." She should have dared ask the question burning in her throat, choking her: _And you didn't think to save him?_ Some protector. At the time, she did not wish to strain their already fragile relationship.

She recalled his gentleness, too. His quiet, passionate words. _"I wish to protect you."_ A part of her, the part she did not wish to deal with right then, wondered what kind of protection it was that Cullen wished to bestow upon her. With every one of her decisions that Cullen contradicted, his quiet "I wish to protect you," began to feel more like "I wish to cage you."

She recalled her commander refer to Maddox as "Samson's Tranquil."  
Who was Samson before the corruption? Who was he before the red lyrium claimed his mind, shackled him to its song? What was Samson like? She sipped her wine, eyes skimming over the bold, surprisingly neat lines, written by the hand of her enemy.  
_'Treat Maddox like you'd treat me.'_


	3. Turn of the Tide

"They've...held a funeral for Maddox. General. Sir." The young scout wiped a thin trickle of blood from his upper lip. His eyes have already assumed the red tint as well, but Samson was focused on other things. He gripped his goblet firmly, so his scout wouldn't notice how much his hands were shaking. He could always ascribe it to the red, though his present state had nothing to do with it. He stared blankly at the half-finished letters strewn across his desk, the ink not yet fully dry to immortalize his failures.

"Sir?"  
He looked up, noticed that the young scout was looking at him with concern on his lyrium-tainted face.  
"Yes. Good that you brought this news." He clapped the scout on the shoulder, his gauntlet-clad hand landing heavily on the steel pauldron.  
"Good man. Go get some rest."  
The young scout nodded, confused, and saluted formally before exiting Samson's makeshift study, leaving the general alone.  
Samson gritted his teeth, rubbing his burning eyes with his gauntlet-free hand. He swallowed the hurt that threatened to spill over, blinked away the tears he would not allow to fall.  
_They've held a funeral for Maddox. General. Sir._  
What was that woman? A demon? A hero? What right did she have to do all the things _right_ just as he failed? It seemed as if the walls were closing in on him. He fastened the buckles of his gauntlet. Samson was to march to war...and end his uncertainties once and forever.

He was shaking before battle. A wave of nausea, a tight ball of _something_ just inside his ribcage that had nothing to do with his armor. No, he'd learned to _breathe_ in that sea of molten pain that was the armor. He had to learn to breathe anew, will each muscle to move against he current of agony, but he kept his head above the floodwaters.

No, this was because he'd face the _Herald_ , once and for all. Samson was by no means a poor fighter. But the way she fought, with unshakable conviction...

_Maker be with you._

What if the Maker _is_ with her?

Samson took a deep breath, focused.  
_I will either have served a god, or perished by the hands of the Herald of one_ , Samson concluded, fastening his bracers.


	4. Judgement

They clashed, and he lost.

It was as simple as that; her fury was indeed like that of the Maker, the Maker _he didn't believe in_ , as she stripped him of his power _and_ his agony both, with determination in her eyes that he was certain could level armies. For the rune in her hand, his armor - his promise of power and his _torture_ , was gone. He was free. And he had nothing, was nothing. He was livid, and overjoyed, he hated and worshiped her, and he fought to the last. He didn't stop fighting until the bladed end of her staff was pressed into his chest, above his heart, he looked up at her, before being swallowed by the dark.

But this dark was without the agony, without the red, without the _power_ thrumming through his veins like some hungry thing, too great for him, and eating him up inside.  
He woke up to shackles around his wrists, and to darkness. It was a darkness without the whispers, simple, unspoiled dark.  
Knowing he gave all he had, and it wasn't enough - Raleigh Samson gave up. He closed his eyes, listening for the howling of wind against the walls of his prison, and finally, finally, he had peace.

It wasn't until the second night that the nightmares came.

 

His judgement was days delayed - the Inquisitor, apparently, had more important business - but those few days were enough for Samson to get reacquainted with both his memories of Kirkwall and the soul-wrenching thirst. The latter he could deal with, the former he had hoped never to experience again.

And when the time came for her to judge him, she'd offer nothing but mercy he knew he hadn't deserved.   
She sat on her throne, hewn from Kirkwall stone - bitter irony, he reminded himself, yet nothing would be more fitting.

_Pass your judgement, Herald. Justice for the innocent. I deserve it. No one more than me._

But she, apparently, thought he did not deserve the respite of oblivion. She wrenched the right of judging him from the hands of the Maker, and decreed he would live.


	5. Perseverance

She, apparently, had other business to attend to rather than gawking at her prisoners. Samson was returned to his cell, and for five days he saw neither head nor hair of the Inquisitor who so generously sentenced him to further agony.  
He spent the better part of those five days either shivering on his makeshift bed, or losing his dinner to the constant nausea. The withdrawal had truly set in, and he knew he could do nothing but bear it. It was partially familiar, from his miserable days in Kirkwall, but he wasn't prepared how much _worse_ red lyrium was.  
There was nothing he could stomach, not even water; if he tried, he'd have to rush to the bucket the guards left for this exact purpose. He could have laughed, had he any strength left afterwards, once he actually looked at the contents of the bucket which was now constantly in the corner of his cell.  
It was there once he'd wiped his mouth on his arm - the sleeve of his worn shirt was stained red. Whether it was lyrium or blood, he couldn't tell. He suspected the latter.  
The guard had the decency not to say anything when she came to empty the bucket. She would, however, look at him and the contents of the bucket with the same expression on her face. He wondered if she'd had any family in Sahrnia.

On the sixth day, he didn't have the strength to get to the bucket anymore.  
On the seventh, the Inquisitor came, he'd caught a glimpse of her face amidst the pulsing shadows and the insistent, red mist. 

Samson woke up to the blinding sunlight streaming in his eyes.  
"Why in the name of Andraste's pyre wasn't I told?!"  
There were voices somewhere near him, and they were yelling.  
"I didn't think to bother you with..."  
Cullen. That was definitely Cullen, his voice more level than Samson ever heard it.  
"Maker's blood!"  
That had to be the Inquisitor. Cullen fell silent for a long moment.  
"You were recovering. What happened at the Well..."  
He fell silent again, and Samson had the feeling that wherever she was, the Inquisitor was glaring. He imagined it quite clearly, from the full lips pressed together in disapproval, the wisps of brown hair falling in her face and the peppering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, to the sea-green eyes flashing with anger. The next moment he was startled, wondering when it was that he memorized the lines of her face like that.

The moment of silence gave him the space to realize that he felt better than he had in weeks. He blinked slowly, carefully turning his head. The muscles in his neck painfully protested, as if unused to movement.  
How long has it been?  
He focused on his nearest surroundings. He was in a bed; sunlight was streaming through the arched window to his right and reflected off the blindingly white cotton cover drawn up to his neck.  
Is this the infirmary? It had to be.  
Samson's gaze was drawn to the wooden nightstand. There were several empty vials there, the remaining drops clinging to them were of the unmistakable luminous blue.  
The voices from somewhere nearby sounded again.  
"Do not think I'd forgotten your words; 'Many would see him suffer. I can't say I'm not one of them.' You have seen enough suffering. And done nothing to prevent it." She paused, as if to collect herself, than continued, her voice sharp and cold as ice. "In the future, I am to be told, and my prisoners are to be treated with dignity. Dignity, Cullen. However little that word means to you."  
The Inquisitor's words were heavy with venom, so much that it surprised even Samson.  
"I will not forget this."  
Cullen's answer was quiet, but with a cold edge to it.  
"Neither will I."  
Silence stretched on. Samson could sense something in it breaking, and suddenly, he wished he didn't overhear that conversation.  
"Good."  
The next thing he'd heard were the sound of steps, retreating into the distance.

During his time in the infirmary - for it was indeed the infirmary, Samson was put under heavy guard. At first he laughed, thinking that maybe he should feel honored, if the Inquisition feared so a currently bedridden man. It took him longer than it should have to realize that the guards were there to protect him. The terror of Sahrnia.

Two days later, he was returned to his cell.


	6. Sincerity

A week after he'd returned from the infirmary, the Inquisitor came to him. He'd been receiving meals daily, as well as a dose of lyrium, so he had nothing to complain about - assuming she had come to inspect what state he was in.  
She had come wrapped in her most inconspicuous shawl - a ratty, faded thing, clearly of dalish make. He wanted to ask about it. Funny, he decided. There before him was the Inquisitor, the vanquisher of his army, his downfall and ruin, and the question he most wanted to ask was about her shawl.  
Truth be told, Samson was tired of the blood and battles.

She walked over to his cell, carefully, staying well away from the bars. He could see her eyes, watching him. There was something clutched in her hands. Samson smelled herbs and spices.  
He nearly laughed out loud when she offered him the bowl with both hands, reaching through the bars.  
He thought briefly about knocking it out of her grasp, telling her that he isn't some _thing_ for her to pity, nor something to be her pet, like Cullen.  
But when he met her gaze, there was no trace of pity in her eyes, no curiosity, and no fear. Just a serious, reserved expression. He accepted the bowl.  
"How are you feeling?"  
At that, he did laugh, a brief and harsh sound, accompanied by a grin that irresistibly pulled on his lips. How perfectly ridiculous; so normal a question, as if she wasn't his jailor and his ruin, and he the general of her enemy.  
"Better." He simply stated, blowing the steam away from the bowl of stew just for something to do. "And you?"  
She looked as if he struck her, and he briefly wondered how often the herd of her companions and advisors remembered to ask that question.  
"I..," she blinked. "Better. I think."  
Silence descended. He used it to taste the stew she'd brought him. At that point, it meant little to him if she meant to poison him or not. The stew was overcooked, undersalted, and overseasoned. But it was the best thing he'd had in days. Or, much longer than that. He would thank her cook himself, were he in a position to do so.  


He must have made a face, because she smiled a small smile, looking elsewhere.  
"I did my best, you know. It always helps me. Sage and mint. It's a dalish recipe...supposedly."  
He paused, the bowl halfway to his lips. His first thought was, what was it with her and the dalish? She was human, the last he checked. And the second, the Inquisitor, revered Herald of Andraste, of House Trevelyan, made food for him by herself? He lowered the bowl.  
"Okay, so what is this about?" he asked, fixing her with his gaze.  
She took a step back. So, there was something. There always was.  
"I...wanted to thank you for what you did."  
He snorted. What kind of joke did she think she was making? He was responsible for hundreds of deaths, he knew that perfectly well. He was reminded of it every time he closed his eyes.  
"...for Maddox. For all of us. Whatever happened afterwards, what you did... for those you saved, thank you."  
She gripped her shawl tighter, turned on her heel, and walked away, leaving Samson to stare after her until she was out of view.


	7. Embrium

The next time he saw her, he asked her about the dalish. It was nearly a month since she first visited him, and he began to think she wasn't coming back; she'd said what she meant to say, and that was the end of it. But nearly a month later, she slunk back into the dungeons smelling of night and embrium, and apologized for her absence.

When she removed her shawl, he noticed that her eyes looked more sunken than the last time he'd seen her, her cheeks more gaunt. He said nothing.  
She made herself comfortable on the chair by his cell, meant for a guard now inconspicuously absent, smiling up at him like they were old friends, not strangers. Not enemies.  
He leaned on the bars and decided that he'd take what he could get.

"So, what's with the shawl?" he nodded towards the faded, threadbare thing.  
She ran the shawl through her fingers, her eyes shining with memories, and sadness.  
"It belonged to a...friend, in the Circle. He came from an alienage, and he was fascinated by the dalish. It was from him I'd learned so much." Her eyes darkened, focusing on some point in space he couldn't see. When she continued her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "He'd been made tranquil for...nothing he did. I lost him at the Conclave."

Samson didn't know what to say.  
"Oh."  
Suddenly, her sympathy for Maddox seemed more understandable. Samson swallowed, the words he knew he had to eventually say sticking in his throat.  
"I...thank you for what you did. The funeral for Maddox."  
The Inquisitor paled slightly.  
"No need to thank me for that. It was the least...I could have done."  
A brief flash of anger...no, regret, appeared in her eyes, and was gone just as soon. She cleared her throat.  
"I am actually here for a reason." Her tone of voice assumed a business-like quality. What he was seeing was the Herald. He quickly realized that that he was seeing just a moment before had been Amelia.  
But he had no time to dwell on it, because she spoke.

"You remember that you were to help Dagna with her research into the nature of lyrium?"  
He nodded, swallowing. His lips felt suddenly dry.  
"I've arranged for you to be escorted to the Undercroft twice weekly. To that end, you are to be under guard, and I've wanted to use this opportunity to offer you a chance to train in the Skyhold courtyard - under guard, of course, after the appointment with the Arcanist."

Samson was taken aback. Was it a trick? A bait of some kind? To tempt him with something that he knew he didn't deserve, than take it away as was right? Be as it is, Samson felt something he thought he'd no longer feel. He longed to see the sky. He swallowed.

"That's...that's fine, Inquisitor."

She smiled.


	8. Revelations

Amelia was sitting at her desk, reading through the sixteenth invitation to a ball in the Orlesian countryside, and the demands for a merchant agreement that immediately followed it, when the doors to her quarters opened with a bang.  
She jumped, leaving a magnificent fingerprint in ink over the title of one Comtesse Helene, and looked up to identify the source of the commotion only to see a disheveled, grinning Dagna.  
"Inquisitor!" Her Arcanist was out of breath, wisps of her hair wild around her flushed face. A new discovery, then.  
"Dagna! News, I presume?"  
"Better!" The dwarf seemed incredibly excited. "You'll never guess what i just discovered while going over the samples from Grumpy over there!"  
Amelia winced. Dagna didn't always have the most gentle approach to taking her "samples."  
"Why don't you tell me, then?"  
The dwarf grinned. "So I was working on the skin samples, you know, and there was some lyrium, but it was weird, so I start working on blood, you know," she explained breathlessly, as if it were self-evident.  
"And, get this: they're clean! Well, cleaner than they were the last time. So, I say, okay, let me see what's happening up close."  
She paused, for dramatic effect, her entire face lit up.  
"Samson's rejecting the lyrium! It never properly bonded! I mean, how amazing is that?!"  
Amelia was silent for a moment, absorbing information. A capable mage that she was, she would often freely admit her mind wasn't nearly on the level of genius that her arcanist achieved without effort. Apparently, the several moments were far too long, so Dagna impatiently explained.  
"He's resistant! Or, well, the most resistant we've yet seen. Or, he has the potential to be resistant. Or something really weird is happening. Either way, I'd like permission to observe him 24/7. I need him in the Undercroft for that."  
She beamed up at Amelia, certain her request would not be denied.  
Amelia blinked, still going over the revelation. This had the potential to be huge. It had the potential to be critically important, now that the red lyrium was on the surface and spreading.  
It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she craved Samson's company. It had nothing to do with the fact that this way, he'd be closer.  
"Permission granted, Dagna. I want reports. I want to oversee all findings personally."  
"You got it, Inquisitor," Dagna beamed, before turning to leave, her objective fulfilled.  
Alone again, Amelia leaned against her desk and cast her gaze to the pile of ink-stained invitations. Well, that will have to wait. Maybe Josephine could summarize it?


	9. Realization

The first series of _sample collecting_ had been incredibly uncomfortable. Samson rubbed the sore spot on his arm, glaring at the dwarf cheerfully working at the workbench, several feet from where he was seated under the watchful gaze of the silent, grim guard. Glaring once more in her direction for good measure, he picked up his shirt from the bench beside him, when he heard by then familiar footsteps. 

"Hey, Dagna, I'd like to see the first progress report..." the Inquisitor looked up. "Oh."

Samson's hands tightened on the worn fabric of the shirt; he suddenly felt self-conscious as he hadn't in...years, really. He was painfully aware of the pallor of his skin and the bruises that were the combined effort of both the uncaring dwarf and the red.

Suddenly, a memory intruded into his thoughts, entirely unwanted.  
_Cullen. Inquisitor's commander. Her shining beacon of faith and dedication, her beloved._  
Samson had a completely unreasonable urge to cover up and run.  
She repeated her flat little "oh," as her eyes roamed his exposed skin.  
Samson could have sworn there was a red tint to her cheeks, but it had to be the light.  
"I...I can come back later." He completely missed her gasp for air.  
"Yes, I have samples to test first..." the dwarf replied, completely ignored.  
The Inquisitor turned and _marched_ out of the Undercroft.  
Ran, really.

Back in her room, Amelia leaned against a bedpost, gasping for air. It was shameful really, how this one image could burn itself into her brain and...  
She was no blushing maiden. She had her fair share of both experience and variety in the Circle. She'd had lovers since then. She'd had...Cullen.  
Why was it, then, that one sight of the general of her enemy sent her fleeing to her room like this?

She briefly considered whether it was shame, but it most definitely wasn't. Living in the Circle, one learns quickly not to be fazed by such things.  
Did he repulse her? Analyzing her feelings briefly, she came to the conclusion that Samson anything but repulsed her.

She craved him, plain and simple. Was it a simple yearning of the flesh, something she could resolve with any stable-hand or errand-girl, had she wished to?  
No, she reasoned; she abandoned such base yearnings since the Circle. And everything after lacked substance.  
Lacked...closeness. Understanding.

With a start, she realized that what she felt was much, much worse than simple lust.

It was the reason she circled him, _like a vulture_ , she thought with disgust. _Why can't you leave him well enough alone? You know all you touch goes up in flames._

Bringing a hand to her eyes, Amelia let herself slide down the bedpost and crumple to the floor, alone in her quarters, where no one could see her, feeling bone-deep tired of regret.


	10. Misunderstandings

Samson retired to the new "quarters" prepared for him with unsaid words on his tongue, all tasting of ruin.

She _ran._

Of course she did. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that he'd allowed a part of him to hope otherwise.

_What did you expect? That she'd jump in your arms? You don't even know her. Not really._

Only, he did. Not that they'd spoken much, but what they did speak of was worth a thousand words from someone else.  
She'd thanked him, for what he did for Maddox.  
That she felt the need to thank him, for a basic thing that anyone ought to do, made him bitter.

What made him more bitter was that she ran.

But what did he expect, really? _That she'd stay? That she'd enjoy looking at the ruin the red made of you?_

Samson shook his head, sinking onto the the small, cramped bed. She had Cullen. Cullen, her bright, faithful, young Commander.  
He threw himself onto the ratty covers with more force than was needed.  
And he began to wonder when exactly did he allow that damned, treacherous thing called hope to take root in his heart again?

 

She didn't come around the next day. Or the day afterward. On the third day, he saw her leaving the Undercroft as he was ushered out of his cell, and realized she's been visiting in the early hours with the specific intention of avoiding him.  
Somehow, Dagna's needle felt like nothing compared to the blade he felt through his ribs. Disappointment.  
Most of all, he was angry at himself, because what Maker-damned right did he even have to hope?


	11. Confession and Doubt

Dorian looked up at the Inquisitor over the gilded edge of the parchment in his hands. Forlorn look. Downcast eyes. Attention anywhere but on the invitations before her.

"You know, some find brooding silence irresistible. I am not one of them." He remarked.

She looked up, as if startled. 

"I'm sorry?"

Dorian gave a humorless smile.

"You've been brooding. Horrible for your complexion. Even worse for your friends."

She smiled at his attempt to cheer her up, but offered no reply.  
Dorian's smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression, as he studied her face.

"Troubles with Cullen?"

"Wh...? Oh. Not. Not really. I mean yes, but... there isn't much left but troubles."

Dorian grimaced, the letter in his hands - one from the heap he's been helping her with - forgotten. He set it aside. "Wait," he said, slowly, narrowing his eyes.  
"I _know_ this kind of brooding."

The Inquisitor looked up at him, reminiscent of a deer caught in the hunter's sights.

"Oh, no, no," Dorian hurried to correct himself. "I don't blame you. And I don't mean to pry, but..." His gaze softened. "No one is worth that kind of sadness. Take it from me." He looked as if he absolutely didn't believe that.

"Don't beat yourself up over it. Look." He lowered his voice, despite the fact they were alone in her quarters, several floors above Skyhold. "I've seen the kind of troubles you've been having with the Commander. Maker knows, I've witnessed them." He sighed. "You shouldn't feel guilty if you've found happiness... elsewhere. You should, however, end what little remains between you. If anything." He gave her a borderline stern look. "That's fair. Everything else...you deserve happiness. Believe me."  
She gave a humorless laugh.  
"That's...not what this is about really. It's...complicated." She finished helplessly.  
Dorian gave her a one-armed hug, a half-smile on his lips.  
"Complicated like explaining to revered mother Giselle what you are doing with the handsome tevinter mage in the small hours of the night, alone in your quarters?"  
To that, she burst into laughter. The first real bout of laughter he'd heard from her in weeks.  
"No,this is worse." She said once she'd composed herself.  
Dorian lifted an eyebrow. "Try me."  
After weighing things briefly, she sighed in defeat.  
"Okay, let us say you fancy someone."  
"Ooh, _fancy_."  
She ignored his good-natured teasing; it was short-lived anyway. He looked at her critically. "Like, 'I want to tear your clothes off' fancy, or ' I want long romantic walks in the moonlight and _also_ to tear your clothes off' fancy?" he inquired.  
"The second, I think."  
"Ooh, that _is_ serious."  
She grimaced in agreement, and continued.  
" _But_ , every conceivable rule of law, common decency, decor, and sense, are against it."  
Dorian raised an eyebrow.  
"Is it Viuus Anaxas?"  
She burst into laugheter at his teasing.  
"No!"  
"Okay; how badly do you want the clothes tearing to occur?"  
She grimaced, showing that she was thinking.  
"Moderately badly," she joked. _Half_ -joked.  
"And how badly do you want the moonlight walks to occur?"  
"Oh. _Very_ badly."  
Dorian looked sympathetic.  
"Oh, my poor dear. There's no helping you. But, you know, provided they're an adult, decently sane, and familiar with your less endearing qualities..." she glared at him for the joke. He continued, unfazed. "...I'd say go for it. I've got your back."  
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow.  
"What if I said it's, well, more complicated than that? _Much_ more complicated."  
Dorian visibly cringed.  
"I'd say Alexius is a lucky old codger."  
Amelia gaped at him in mock-outrage.  
"We only flirted maybe _twice_."  
Dorian cringed harder, visibly exaggerating.  
"Too much information. Florianne, then?"  
"I totally would. If she lost a bit more of the _scheming conniving_ thing, that is."  
Dorian laughed. "Master Dennet."  
It was Amelia's turn to cringe. "He's _married._ "  
"Ooh, I know, Grim."  
"Oh, _ew._ "  
Dorian laughed harder, happy to see Amelia join him for a change, obviously coming up with ideas as ridiculous as he could.

 

He looked up at her, his laughter dying. Her eyes were wide, the shadow of her smile fading from her face.

"Amelia... whoever it is. You deserve happiness."

She looked at him with wide, haunted eyes. Dorian knew immediately what her thoughts were, just as if she'd spoken out loud. He took her hands.  
"Amelia, trust me. I know you still cannot let go of what happened to Sylen. I'm not saying you should. I'm saying you deserve happiness."  
She was silent for a while, eyes glistening with unspilled tears.

"Dorian... I'm sorry, please don't leave."

She was serious; he was baffled. "Amelia...why would I leave?"

She fixed her eyes on him, still bright with tears she would not let fall, and defiant.  
"I ruin everything I touch. The Chantry teaches us it's our magic. You know I never believed that. But my family, house Trevelyan...the best thing I ever did for them was leave."  
Despite her best efforts, few clear drops rolled down her cheeks.  
"My mother told me that. That when I go to the Circle, my magic would be a stain on the honor of our house no more. Still, I did not want to believe. There had to be a brighter world. Someplace just. Where an accident of birth would not condemn me. I met Sylen, he believed like I did. He promised me so much. Then..."

He knew what was coming - she told him once, a broken voice in the dark.

"They took Sylen from me. He got the brand, for what _I_ had done. Because they'd rather punish an elf then a human noble," she finished, bitterness lacing her every word.

Tears rolled down her cheeks freely at that point. Dorian still, very lightly, held her hands.  
He may not have liked those kinds of moments, but his friend, probably his closest friend, needed him. The Amelia he knew would bear the burdens of the Inquisition silently, and fight as hard as any soldier right on the front lines. Even after everything the Chantry had done. Because it was _necessary_. How far did they all push her? How much further until she would break? How did he not notice? To see her in tears...Dorian wanted to hurl a fireball at something. Instead, he held her hands. She continued. 

"I thought if I stayed with him, by his side, I'd have fulfilled my duty. To him. What I'd promised. Even if now we could never... find a home. Be with his people. But the Chantry took even that."

Dorian still remembered her vivid recollection of her former lover turned tranquil, dead in the dust and ruin of the Conclave.

"And now...if I let myself care like that again...if I let someone close...someone they..." She swallowed. "I couldn't protect him. Or I could. I didn't. It should have been me."  
Unable to continue, she cast her gaze down, eyes wide, catching her breath, seemingly not caring anymore for the freely flowing tears.  
After a moment, Dorian spoke softly, breaking her out of that darkness of the past she was becoming trapped in.  
"My dear. I know it may seem that way. But trust me, it is through no fault of yours that the world is ending." He offered a smile.  
"You deserve to be happy. Whoever it is, whatever you feel...allow yourself to try. I've got your back. We set any Chantry lackey who might say otherwise on fire," he only _half_ -joked.  
Her tearful smile was accompanied by gratitude clear in her eyes.  
Dorian mock-winced. "Now, tearful gratitude is something I really can't deal with. Let's get back to Comte I'll-Call-An-Exalted-March and send him an appropriately _scathing_ reply."

Cheeks still stained with tears, Amelia burst into laughter.

_You have seen to the very depths of my darkness. And you stayed. Thank you._


	12. Choices

He'd been allowed to exercise in the courtyard twice daily. With recent events, it lost some of its appeal, but he took the opportunity anyway - he hated wasting away in his cell with the red gnawing away at him. The least he could do was go down swinging - even if it was swinging a dulled blade at a practice target.

_Of course_ Cullen wouldn't arm Corypheus' general at Skyhold. But the practice blade he'd been granted was at least of proper weight. The target gave way with the splintering of wood, which Samson noted with some small satisfaction. He wasn't even the tenth of the man he was while he had the armor; but, his sword arm was still strong enough. And he remembered his training well.

He readjusted the blade in his hand, gritted his teeth, and swung again, deliberately ignoring exhaustion. He welcomed the burning in his muscles; it helped take his mind off _her_. He wasted away in his cell long enough, with the shroud of red choking him. So he welcomed the exertion, welcomed the sweat that beaded on his skin, and the sharp chill in the air. He was well aware of his scars and bruises; she'd seen them and he didn't give a damn what anyone else thought.

_You shouldn't have cared what she thought, either._  
He swung harder.

He was aware of the glares and muttered curses, but only two passing guards that morning spat at him. They missed; no one dared to come close enough. But the message was clear. Family in Sahrnia.

_'The blood on his hands cannot be measured.'_  
Cullen's words. At his trial. Could _he_ have been in Cullen's place? A commander of the Inquisition?  
_With her at your side?_ a voice in the back of his mind added. Would she have chosen him? If only he'd closed his eyes to what was happening? If he ignored the screams?

The second of the practice targets came apart into straw and splinters, and Samson paused, hands on his knees, breathing hard.  
_She would never choose you. Because you're nothing. Worse than nothing. A monster._

He became increasingly aware of eyes watching him from one of the shadowy walkways of Skyhold.  
He absolutely ignored the stab of disappointment when he straightened and turned around, only to meet not the sea-green eyes of the Inquisitor, but the reserved brown ones of her dwarven rogue.  
Varric Tethras. Another name from Kirkwall.  
It seemed as if that damned city haunted his steps wherever he went.

"Damn. I'd only seen a man act like that once, and it was because his paramour left him for a blondie."  
Samson glared hard at the dwarf, but Varric seemed unperturbed. He was leaning against a pillar, obviously unconcerned with the red templar general before him. _Former_ general. _With a dull practice blade._  
No one feared the Inquisitor's war trophy. Samson was aware of that. All of Skyhold knew he was defanged.

"Did the Inquisitor not provide better fun for her soldiers than watching Skyhold's animal pens?" Samson remarked bitterly, hoping that the dwarf would find his attitude unsavory enough to leave. He had no such luck.

"You're not a beast. Far from it."  
Samson wondered if the dwarf's unexpected compassion had anything to do with the stories about his brother, Bartrand or some such, Deep Roads, and the red lyrium.  
"And what would you know about it?" Samson spat, but Varric just gazed at him calmly, his eyes unreadable.  
"More than you'd think."

He left his spot at the pillar, and walked up to Samson, who stood in the courtyard amidst the remains of the practice targets.  
Samson gripped his dulled blade firmly, for the dwarf not to notice how much he was shaking.  
Was it the red finally claiming him, he wondered, or was it what the rogue had said?  
_Or what you imagine is happening right now in Cullen's office?_  
Amelia went there this morning. She had yet to return.

Varric looked up at him.  
"You care for her, don't you?"  
Samson bared his teeth, realizing he'd been caught staring towards the tower.  
"What makes you think that?" he half-growled. Varric looked at him with an expression so akin to pity that it made Samson's blood boil.  
"I don't give a damn about her!"  
Varric leveled his gaze at him - not an easy thing to do, considering their height difference - and simply asked "who?"  
Samson felt color rise to his face. He remained silent.  
"Thought so." The rogue concluded.  
"The point is, I've watched all that once before, and if I'd intervened, we might not have been in this mess." He paused. "So I'm intervening now. Maker help me if I'm wrong - wouldn't be the first time." He swallowed, surveying the remains of the practice targets around them, before returning his gaze to Samson.  
"Talk to her."  
With that, he was gone.  
Samson was left alone, and suddenly realized that the wind was picking up, cold and biting into his skin. He shivered.  
He felt eyes upon him, and when he looked up to the ramparts, he realized he was right.  
Only these were sea-green.


	13. Confrontation

Amelia came to him in the evening. He looked up from the book Dagna had so graciously granted him, only to see her standing before his cell. She looked uncomfortable, official.  
He swallowed his disappointment, forcing himself to return his eyes to the book in his hands.  
"Still here, Inquisitor."  
"Yes, uh. I'll need you to come with me."  
He looked up with interest. She motioned to the guard, who wordlessly unlocked his cell, then stepped aside to take her spot by the door.  
He placed the book on his bed, and stepped out of his cell, ignoring the cracking of his joints.  
Maybe those practice targets deserved less of his fury.  
The guard remained in her spot, staring forward into space. Samson raised his eyebrows.  
"No guard?"  
Amelia met his gaze, steel in her eyes that he hadn't seen except on the battlefield, facing her enemies. Facing _him_.  
"I'm a mage," was her clipped reply. "I can protect you."  
He chuckled quietly at the irony. His former knight-commander would throw a fit. Come to think of it, Cullen would throw a fit also.  
Thankfully, she didn't misunderstand his quiet laughter as mockery.  
Samson didn't for a moment question the truth of her words.  
"Lead the way."

She led him out of the Undercroft - both Harritt and Dagna were inconspicuously absent that evening, and he began to notice a pattern there. The few night patrols on the battlements merely gave them scornful looks, the Inquisitor's presence apparently enough to make up for the offensiveness of his own.  
She led him to the doors of a disused, two-story tower; he noticed the old doors had been replaced, the wood fresh enough to leak sap.  
They paused at the door. He didn't understand, the frown on his face saying as much, as he waited for her to speak.  
She was smiling, apparently eager to make some announcement.  
She took a ring of keys from one of the numerous pouches at her belt - the metal gleamed like brass in the torchlight.  
"You're moving." She simply said, a smile illuminating her face. "I convinced my advisors that this is the safest arrangement. The tower will be under guard, of course, but both Leliana and Josephine see the benefits of this - "  
She unlocked the door, letting them inside. It was sparsely furnished; but it was luxury compared to his cell. There was a fireplace, a weapons stand, a simple unadorned desk, and an empty bookshelf - even a metal bath. His frown deepened. She seemed oblivious to that, as she cheerfully continued.  
"This way you won't have to deal with people...looking...at you."  
Ah. So she had seen him being spat at.  
"There is a bed up on the second level, and- " She looked up, finally noticing his frown, and her smile faded. It took him a moment to find his voice, and when he did, it sounded more rough than he intended.  
"What are you playing at?"  
A frown of confusion appeared on her face, her eyes not leaving his.  
"What do you mean?"  
He gestured widely at the room around him.  
"This. Don't you understand? I _deserve_ to have them spitting at me. Don't think I don't know that."  
She was looking at him as if she were physically hurting. But he had to speak. He had been silent for too long. And she, if not him, deserved the truth.  
"But no; first you come to me, as if...as if I was a _person_ ; not Corypheus' General. Not the death of Sahrnia. Not a damned _monster._ "  
She winced at the harsh declaration, but he continued.  
"Then, you run at the sight of me! I get it. Red ain't easy to see. But you don't even look me in the eye afterwards. Not even that."  
Another wince, this one for a very different reason, but seemingly unheeded just the same.  
His eyes pinned her in place, as he paced like a caged beast.  
"And now, _this_. For how long aren't you gonna look at me afterwards, _Inquisitor_? A month? Until the red takes me?"  
His voice was rising in volume, without him taking notice. But instead of accusing, it sounded desperate. He looked at her, shaking his head.  
"I can't. Even for you, this is cruel. I have nothing, Inquisitor. There's nothing you can use to break me. Even so, to decide to play like this... I don't get it. Why? What are you getting out of seeing me break?"  
His voice quieted until it was just slightly louder than a whisper. His eyes were on hers, empty of everything.  
"There's not much more left to break."

He took a step towards her, uncertain of what he wanted. She didn't back away.  
Their eyes locked, and there was _something_ in hers akin to fire.  
A whisper escaped her lips with a breath, and it was the first time he'd ever heard her say his name.  
"Raleigh."  
As if possessed, he took another step forward; mere inches remaining between them. He was acutely aware of every soft breath that escaped her lips - he could _feel_ it on his own. The constellations of freckles across the bridge of her nose seemed golden in the firelight. There was something in her eyes that he _needed_ to be able to breathe. He never wanted to look away; it was as if she'd taken his very soul, and at that moment, he would have been glad to give it. He would have been glad to lay everything he was, whatever remained of him, at her feet, and serve forever.  
His conqueror, his end, his ruin.  
Her.  
He could feel her heartbeat for how close they were, he could feel her breath and he could smell the scent of embrium.  
At that moment, he could have sworn he forgot how to feel broken. It was like an unseen tide of light, her magic. He may not have been a templar anymore, but he could swear he felt it, sharper than he ever did before.  
She reached towards him, her fingers curling in the threadbare cotton of his shirt. Her touch ran through him like sparks. On instinct, he leaned forward, thinking of nothing but _her_.

The door opened, letting in a cold gust of wind.  
"Amelia?"  
Cullen's face was frozen in shock, his eyes widening, before they turned dark and cold with understanding.  
Their spell was shattered.  
The Commander reached for the hilt of his sword, presumably to protect the Inquisitor, but Samson couldn't - _wouldn't_ \- take any chances.  
Without thinking, his body reacting on instinct, he moved to position himself between Amelia and the blade.  
But before he could do so, he felt the unmistakable flare of magic by his side.  
Amelia's face was a mask of resolve, her hands wreathed in flames as she stared with steel-like determination into the eyes of her Commander. Her - former - lover.  
She spoke through clenched teeth, words laced with ice as flames licked up her arms.  
"You will not touch him."


	14. Cold Flame

"Amelia, what...?" Cullen stared at her, his sword halfway drawn.  
"Amelia?" he asked again, disbelieving, a crack in his voice he could not conceal.  
" _Him?_ That _thing_?" the Commander's words were simmering with rage.  
"After all he's done?"

Amelia spoke through clenched teeth, the fire around her burning hotter.  
" _Out. Get out._ "

The Commander hesitated, torn between stepping forward and stepping back.

_He's no longer taking lyrium,_ Samson remembered.  
_He can't properly silence her magic._

_'I can protect you.'_ Her words echoed in Samson's mind.

In perfect faith, he stepped aside. There was nothing between the uncertain commander and the livid mage.  
Cullen squared his jaw; his eyes darkened. His gaze slid from Amelia to Samson, where it lingered for a long moment, filled with ice-like hatred, before he returned his sword back to its sheath, and walked away. He didn't look back.

By Samson's side, the flames went out, leaving Amelia gasping for air, her eyes wide and unseeing. She looked as if she was about to collapse.  
Without thinking, Samson wrapped her in his arms, allowing the both of them to slowly slide to the floor. Kneeling beside her, he remained at a loss for words, merely holding her instead.  
She remained silent, staring into space for a long while, before she finally spoke.  
"I can protect you. I promise...whoever wishes you harm...will end in fire."  
He wasn't sure the words were meant for him.  
Like a ghost in her eyes, there was another fire.  
Perhaps the Conclave. Perhaps it was Haven.

"I know," he said quietly, simply holding her.  
Not knowing what to do - what _do_ you do when someone cares enough to _kill_ for you? - he pressed his lips to her forehead.  
"I know."

The hurried footsteps were those of Leliana's guards, rushing to usher the Inquisitor back to her quarters. The Spymaster knew everything.  
They left Samson alone in his new home, with its empty bookshelf, and its dying fire.


	15. Red

Samson walked around his quarters, not really certain what to do with himself. What had happened that day...he wasn't sure what to think of it. He wanted to take it, make it his own, tell himself that what the Inquisitor did, she did for him. And yet, he was so deeply, absolutely certain he deserved exactly none of anyone's mercy, least of all hers. Which was more, he was absolutely certain that the moment he reached for something, the moment he took anything in his hands, it would turn to dust and ashes. Everything always did. He learned that the hard way, during the worst of his days on the streets of Kirkwall, begging for coin. He remembered all too vividly the stabbing pain of hunger and the unbearable, maddening _need_. The kind that nothing could sate but lyrium, so bad that no matter how badly he was starving, he would curse under his breath if the tavern cook tossed him scraps instead of coin.

He could swear the ghost of that need was there, curled underneath his ribcage, like some sleeping beast.  
He shook his head, willing the memories away, when the sound of the door opening tore him from his thoughts.

It was one of the guards, a young man in his twenties, a bucket of water in his hands.  
He set the bucket down to the side, and closed the door behind him.  
When his eyes, pale in the shadows of his hood, landed on Samson, the former general knew something was wrong.

The expression on the young man's face was that of triumph; his thin lips curled upwards in an unpleasant grin.  
_Hate,_ Samson realized. Hate was the thing burning in the young man's eyes.

That was when Samson noticed the flash of a knife.

 

Dorian set the steaming cup of herbal tea on Amelia's desk, briefly squeezing her shoulder. She offered a grateful smile, pulling her threadbare dalish shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"If you want me to stay..." Dorian offered. Amelia shook her head.  
"No. Thank you. You've already done so much."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, with a barely noticeable nod, before wordlessly turning around and leaving the Inquisitor to her duties.

Her gaze returned to the ever-increasing pile of documents on her desk. She picked up a parchment and begun to read.  
'Comtesse Lutetia expresses her gratitude for the Inquisition's hospitality and would like to humbly remind the revered Herald of their agreement concerning the exports of...'

Amelia's thoughts wandered. The more she tried to focus on the lines of text, the less success she had. Her duties as Inquisitor kept her away, but what had happened that day in the tower replayed before her eyes again and again whenever she had a moment to herself, a kaleidoscope of flame and promise. Why? None of it made any sense, and yet there was a thread there she could feel more than see, her mind refusing to connect the pieces.

'...would like to humbly remind the revered Herald of...'

Why would you step in front of a blade for your mortal enemy? It was a farce, what she felt, what she _hoped_ for; it reminded her of one of those orlesian tragic comedies more than anything.  
_To think, the day has come when you need to protect your enemy from yourself._

She let her head fall on her arms, then sat up and tried to focus on the letter before her.

'...their agreement concerning the exports of...'

After reading the same sentence for what felt like the tenth time to no avail, she discarded the letter back on the heap with more force than necessary.  
Her gaze fell to the cooling cup of herbal tea, and she felt a wave of affection for Dorian.  
Carefully, she took a sip, disappointed that she'd let the tea go cold.

Setting the cup down, her left hand caught her attention. The mark, bright and flickering and still so _alien._ She ran the fingers of her right hand over it carefully, ready for the - thankfully, weak - echo of pain. She had a silly, unreasonable fear that one day her fingers will simply fall through, and some abyss to the depths of the Fade will be there instead, cradled in the palm of her hand. She chuckled at the outrageous fear, closing her hand. _Like a child._ She thought. _What would they think of their Inquisitor if they knew?_ She shook her head, a tired smile pulling on her lips.  
Glancing briefly at the pile of letters on her desk, she decided that the best thing she could do was to go to bed and let the entire thing resolve itself in the morning. _Not that it would_ , Amelia thought bitterly. _But here's to hoping._

 

She dreamed of Haven.  
It was like moving through water; the Inquisition's flags slowly moved in the breeze she could not feel.  
She walked slowly through the empty streets. There were voices in the wind, but no people. Haven was empty, left to its ghosts.  
Cullen's voice reached her through the choir of whispers.  
_'For the Herald! For all of us!'_  
It was from the night of the battle for Haven.  
More whispers, and screaming.  
Cullen's voice cut through again.  
_That is Samson! He will not make it easy!_  
Amelia wished to run, but it was like running through water.  
There was no battle, only voices, the sun shining mockingly through the sickly green of the heavens.  
She reached the lake, a vast, frozen expanse, gleaming like a mirror.  
She leaned forward, meeting the eyes of her reflection.  
Then, she _did_ scream.  
A spike of red lyrium protruded from her chest, embedded through skin and bone.  
Frantically, she clawed at it; flakes of red crystal were all she got for her efforts. It would not be removed.  
Herald. _Herald. Wake up. ___

___Wake up!_ _ _

__"Wake up!"_ _

__Amelia woke with a gasp, her terrified eyes meeting Cole's, who was desperately shaking her.  
"Cole...? What-?"_ _

__Cole seemed desperate, his words urgent.  
"Something's...wrong. I can't get in! Not anymore. I'm too much...here, for that. But something is happening! You have to help!"_ _

__Amelia tried to make her voice sound as calming as possible.  
"What is happening, Cole dear? How can I help?"_ _

At a loss for words, Cole stilled, eyes wide and fixed onto empty space, as if seeing something she could not see.  
"Hands, shaking, but it has to be done. She didn't do what she should have. She...betrayed us. I have to. For my mother. For my sister."  
He fell briefly silent, before continuing.  
"The blade, twisted, thirsting, there, in his hand... slick, and sated. Blood red, like them. Justice, for Sahrnia." 

__His eyes refocused on hers, wide and urgent.  
"If you don't hurry, he will die."_ _

__Without another word, Amelia flung herself from the bed and ran down the stairs._ _

__

__When she arrived, breathless and gripped by panic, there were Leliana's guards already by the ruined door. Pushing them aside without so much as an apology, Amelia rushed into the room.  
The Spymaster herself was there, as well as a young man, the swords of two of Leliana's guards pointed at his throat. _ _

__Curled on the floor by the table was Samson, his shirt soaked with blood.  
Amelia hurriedly knelt by him, fighting the panic blooming in her chest.  
_You've done this before, out on the battlefield. This is no different._

__But it _was_ different; she cursed her lack of foresight; she should have carried healing potions in Skyhold.  
"Find a mage," she commanded, fighting to keep the panic out of her voice, then, cursing her inability to heal, added: "a healer."_ _

Leliana looked at her with what could have been understood as sadness, had Amelia paid any attention to anything but the man bleeding out on the floor.  
"It is not a problem to find a mage in Skyhold, Inquisitor. It is a problem finding one that will heal _him_." 

__Amelia finally looked up at her, her expression a mixture of desperation and rage._ _

__"I know someone," Cole said suddenly. "He can help."  
Then he was gone._ _

__The guards lead the would-be assassin out, either to deny him the pleasure of watching his target die or to spare him the Inquisitor's immediate wrath. The man used the opportunity to mutter a curse, his eyes filled with hatred, but Amelia saw little aside from the man on the floor, clutching his side, fresh blood welling through his fingers._ _

__Samson coughed, which spattered his lips with crimson, then removed his hand from his side to stare at his shaking fingers.  
Amelia reacted immediately, pressing her own hand against the wound instead to stop him from bleeding out._ _

__He was struggling to focus on his fingers, fighting to keep his eyes open, a grimace half pain half humor tugging on his lips.  
"That's...that's fair."_ _

__The door opened; a man entered, followed by Cole.  
He was tall, clad in brand new Circle robes, barely in his twenties, with dark skin and a mop of blonde hair. Immediately, he knelt by Samson and gently removed Amelia's hand._ _

__Samson fought to focus on the youth's face.  
"I...I know you."_ _

__"Yes, Ser Samson. Hold still," his voice was calm, and his hands steady, working swiftly to free the wound of the torn fabric surrounding it. Once exposed, it looked much worse than before._ _

__"Barbed blade," the mage stated calmly, pressing his palms to the sides of the wound. He didn't seem to mind the blood that stained his hands.  
Samson hissed in pain, trying to sit upright._ _

__"You need to be still, Ser Samson."_ _

__Finally recognizing something she could help with, Amelia grabbed Samson's shoulders, firmly holding him down._ _

__A cool glow surrounded the healer's hands, seeping into Samson's skin, stitching torn flesh back together.  
The wound closed before their eyes, but the healer kept his spell going for a moment longer, before finally removing his hands. He straightened._ _

__"He lost a lot of blood. Luckily, no poison. He should take a healing potion before going anywhere, if you can find one. No exerting himself for at least a day."_ _

__Amelia looked up at the mage with gratitude in her eyes._ _

__"What's your name?"_ _

__He watched her for a moment, as if weighing her worth, before replying with that same sense of unwavering calm._ _

__"Airen, Your Worship."_ _

__"I'm not- you deserve a reward."_ _

__"No need, Your Worship. Ser Samson here saved a lot of mages in Kirkwall. Me among them. Now, if there's nothing else, Your Worship."_ _

__He stood up, and with an incline of his head, left the tower without once looking back._ _

__"I told you he could help!" Cole exclaimed, with a barely noticeable smile of relief._ _

__

__At that moment, Leliana re-entered the room, without Amelia ever having noticed she was gone. Wordlessly, she held out a bottle of healing potion, which Amelia gratefully took._ _

__"You know, this might be an organized effort," the Spymaster said; it was obvious she's already given it a lot of thought.  
"We cannot allow this to happen again," she declared, while Amelia was attempting to get the half-conscious man to drink.  
"If allowed to spread unchecked, this might seriously undermine the authority of the Inquisition."  
Amelia could clearly hear the part that Leliana left unsaid, too.  
_'Your actions might have seriously undermined the authority of the Inquisition.'_

Finally, she looked up.  
"What do you need?" 

"There may be more of them. I, and my trusted agents, will have to do a sweep through the guard. I suggest you keep your prisoner somewhere safe, until Skyhold is made safe." 

Amelia frowned, thinking, her gaze sliding from her Spymaster to the former general. 

"Fine," she said finally, through clenched teeth, aware that she was most likely trying to put a fire out with oil.  
"My quarters." 


	16. Things Left Unsaid

Dorian caught up with them by the library door, hastily dressed and with an expression of concern on his face. Leliana and Amelia were supporting the barely-conscious Samson, followed by two guards with their blades bared.  
"I heard. Is he going to live?"  
Amelia looked at him with determination clearly written on her features, repositioning Samson's arm across her shoulders.  
"Yes, if I can help it."  
Dorian offered to replace Leliana, which the Spymaster allowed.  
"I get one night of sleep in days, and _somebody_ gets stabbed," Dorian lamented, clearly in an attempt to lighten the situation.  
Had she been less tense and worried, Amelia would have laughed.  
They reached the stairs, moving carefully, doing their best not to put too much strain on Samson's freshly closed wound.

Once they reached her quarters and there was less chance of an attack from the shadows, the two guards aided Dorian in getting Samson onto the bed. That allowed the Inquisitor and the Spymaster a moment alone.  
"I am sorry for failing you so, Inquisitor."  
"You didn't fail. I'm sorry for putting you into this position, Leliana."  
"I allowed an assassination attempt within our walls!" the Spymaster snapped, then, realizing her outburst, lowered her voice.  
"This never should have happened, regardless of your judgement."  
For a moment, both went quiet, observing the efforts of Dorian and the guards.  
When Leliana spoke again, her tone was cautious.  
"There _is_ another matter I must call your attention to."  
Her eyes met Amelia's, unreadable and calculating.  
"I don't mean to question your judgement, but... He _is_ still taking lyrium. He _could_ effectively silence your magic. I cannot in good conscience leave you alone with an enemy general, regardless of his state."  
Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose, reining in her annoyance.  
Leliana was right.  
And that was what angered her.  
Leliana was absolutely right and her worry was both understandable and well-founded.  
It was _Amelia_ that acted like a reckless teenager, just for the first time in love and thinking that not a thing in the world can go wrong. _So much for that._  
"Thank you for your concern. But I am a harrowed Circle mage. I think I can manage _one_ recently-stabbed templar."

"What was that about recently-stabbed templars?"  
Dorian had apparently finished his task, and rejoined them. Both of Leliana's guards moved past them without so much as a word, obviously already instructed about their tasks.  
"Nothing," Leliana dismissed it. "And now, if you will excuse me, I must join the hunt for our killers."  
There was something about the Spymaster that sent shivers down Amelia's spine. She would _hate_ to be on Leliana's bad side, she decided.  
Dorian simply nodded to Amelia, his jaw squared and eyes filled with determination, then followed the guards, clearly intending to lend his time and skills to their search.

"At least think about what I said," the Spymaster added over her shoulder, already a good distance away from the Inquisitor's door.  
"It's not like I...intend to sleep by him, Leliana!" Amelia half-shouted after her. The Spymaster gave her a look over her shoulder, disappearing from sight.  
Amelia closed the door, turned around, pressed her back against it, and allowed herself an exasperated sigh, trying very hard to ignore exactly that kind of urge. 

She approached Samson to try and assess his condition instead. He seemed either asleep or unconscious; his breathing was level, though his cheeks were even more pale than usual. There were dark circles of exhaustion underneath his eyes, and she wondered if he suffered the nightmares that came with withdrawal. Red lyrium was... an unknown, at best. Slowly, carefully so as not to disturb him, she seated herself at the edge of the bed, by his side. She found herself carefully studying his features in the firelight. Her eyes followed the shape of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, lingering for a moment too long on his lips. He seemed...at peace, right then. The kind of peace the waking world would never grant him, and dreams granted him only rarely, on those few nights he by pure chance wasn't haunted by the memory of lyrium, and the images of blood. Her heart ached for him - she wanted to grant him that peace, but she didn't know how. Some things weren't hers to forgive.  
_I can only love you._  
Slowly, not thinking about what she was doing, she raised her hand to his face, letting her fingers hover just barely above his skin; reluctant to disturb his sleep, aware she should do nothing, no matter how small, without his consent.  
His eyes abruptly opened, wide with alarm, and his hand shot up, trapping hers against his face.  
Amelia was caught, like a moth that flew too close to the flame, and all she could do was stare at him, and try to calm her frantic breathing.  
His eyes focused slowly on her face, and anxiety drained out of them. His breathing soon became level again, and his grip on her hand slackened, though he did not let go.  
She could have pulled her hand easily from his.  
She didn't.  
He didn't take his eyes off hers for a second, until they closed, and sleep reclaimed him, his hand slipping from hers.  
Still, she didn't remove her hand, instead slowly letting her fingers trace the beauty marks on his skin, with the lightest of touches. Instead, she hoped against all sense and reason, for a world where she would have the courage to ask him if she could count those marks with her kisses. Hoped for an impossible, unattainable world, where they could stand side by side in the light, with no judgement.  
_But I cannot give you that world. Some things aren't mine to forgive._  
_I can only love you._  
_And I mustn't tell you that._


	17. Allegiance

Only when leaving Samson's side did Amelia notice the dry, red streaks on her hands. Most of it was already gone, but the lines on the palm of her right hand stood out, dark red against her skin.  
_Already, your blood is on my hands. How much more will there be before the end?_

She walked over to a side table, where there was an engraved, silver basin (gifted to her by one lord or another). Ignoring the stern images of Andraste staring blindly from its sides, etched into the metal, she filled it with water from the pitcher. It took...longer than it should have, and by the time her hands were clean, the water in the basin took on a red tint. Her eyes searched the room for a bucket, or anything she might use to dispose of the water - she hated seeing her reflection in what was essentially _Samson's blood_ , childish as it may be. Once that was dealt with, she sat at her desk and decided to tackle the intimidating pile of letters, invitations, and requests, heeding Leliana's advice despite the urge to do otherwise. The Spymaster had yet to fail her - and it _was_ better to err on the side of caution.

Amelia looked up only when she heard the rustling of movement. By then, a third of her candle was gone, and the pile of letters decreased by a good amount.  
Samson blinked and, apparently realizing where he was, tried to sit up. This ended in a grimace of pain, his hand gripping his side.

"So, the lad was right-handed."  
His attempt at humor fell flat, silence descending upon the room.  
Amelia wasn't entirely sure what to say. They were finally alone, and she wasn't sure what to say to the contradiction currently on her bed in tattered, bloodied clothing. Samson was supposed to be her enemy, yet he was everything but that. She was supposed to ensure justice for those lost in Sahrnia, yet there she was, sheltering the Red Templar general in her quarters, her Spymaster scouring Skyhold for anyone that would think to harm him.  
Amelia let out a shaky breath. Another of her failures to add to the list, then.  
Setting the quill aside, she rubbed her temples to ward off the encroaching headache.  
As always when she was at a loss for what to do, she approached the situation with a practical mindset. He'll want to wash the blood off, and she should probably provide him with something else to wear besides the now barely recognizable shirt.  
Samson cleared his throat, pulling her from her thoughts.  
"I suppose I should thank you," he said, carefully observing the decor of the room, the bookshelves, anything but her face.  
It took Amelia a moment to gather her thoughts enough to speak.  
"Actually, I wasn't the one to heal you. I am not exactly... Healing spells aren't my area of expertise. A young man named Airen agreed to help."  
Samson's face momentarily drained of all emotion; Amelia was certain she'd seen a flicker of fear in his eyes. No...shame. Something she was well acquainted with, herself.  
"Wish I did more for him," Samson said awkwardly, his voice more quiet than usual, but in the overwhelming silence it was perfectly clear. "Wish I did more for them all."  
His eyes unfocused, as if he were looking at something, someplace, long since gone.  
It was, again, something that Amelia understood all too well.  
"We did. We did all we could for them."  
Samson's eyes snapped to hers.  
"Does it help, saying that?"  
The corners of her lips briefly twitched upwards in a bitter smile.  
"Sometimes."  


After a moment of silence, she cleared her throat.  
"If you're well enough to walk, there's water in the basin over there. I'll find something else for you to wear."  
Happy to focus on anything else, she walked over to her wardrobe, while Samson did as she suggested, approaching the basin with tentative steps despite the fact his wound had been healed.  
Perhaps it was the red, Amelia's mind helpfully suggested, eager as always to categorize and explain everything, especially when there were things weighing on her. It was a useful skill most of the Circle developed early on. It was better to focus on the books instead of noticing the eyes upon you, ever watchful. It was better to drown oneself in studies than meet the eyes filled with hate, or worse - much worse - the empty ones.  
She'd have to look into the effects of lyrium on healing.  
Amelia searched through her wardrobe, determined not to look up. Finally, she decided on a simple linen tunic, thankful that at least something in her wardrobe wasn't a gold-embroidered gift of some lord or comte. She doubted Skyhold would look fondly on Corypheus' general walking around in things gifted to their Herald. There were already enough things she had done that would be deemed a slap in the face of the faithful. She was well aware of that.  
With a defeated sigh, she turned around, and found herself almost face-to-face with Samson.  
He was... _shirtless,_ was the first thing she noticed. Her eyes followed the tangled lines of scars, lingered too long on the dark patterns of bruises - which bloomed along his collarbone and ribs - followed the veins too visible under his skin for it _not_ to be the lyrium, to settle finally on his red-tinted eyes that bore into hers with a mixture of concern and something she couldn't define, something too akin to _fear_.  
She swallowed dryly, careful not to let her eyes stray from his this time, offering him the tunic.  
He made no move to take it.  
"Is it that bad, Inquisitor?" he asked, his words only half laced with dark humor. There was an undertone of desperation there which she couldn't _not_ hear. "Bad enough that you cannot even look?"  
"Raleigh..."  
He grabbed the tunic from her hands, his lips pressed into a tight line. When she looked up, there was a fading sadness in his eyes.  
"...it's not that."  
He was silent for a moment, waging some war with himself that she knew nothing about.  
"What's it about, then?"  
She sighed again, trying to organize her thoughts, fearful of breaking whatever the fragile thing between them was. Searching his eyes, she finally settled on truth, and opened her mouth to speak.  
A knock on the door interrupted them.  
"Your Worship? Lady Nightingale sends word. She says that her search is over, and requests that you meet her in the war room."  
Amelia let out a breath, her shoulders sinking. She looked up at Samson with an apologetic look.  
"We'll have to continue this another time."  
_This isn't over._  
Her tone changed when she spoke again, now purposefully light and teasing in an attempt to break the tension.  
"You'll have to come with me. I cannot exactly leave you alone with sensitive Inquisition correspondence, can I?"  
His lips curled upwards, and she considered that her personal victory. He put the tunic on, and looked at Amelia with mirth in his eyes.  
"At your service, Inquisitor."  
Amelia smirked at his teasing, thankful that the tension from moments ago had been largely dispelled. She was aware that whatever it was between them was far from resolved, but she was happy that they could put it aside, at least for the moment. She walked over to her desk, gathering several of the letters which she intended to give to Leliana.  
Samson spoke again, obviously having accepted her offer of truce, perhaps simply to fill the silence and stop them both from lingering on things unsaid.  
"I'm not much of a templar anymore, but I still have my sword arm."  
Amelia paused. Obviously, he didn't realize. She bit her lower lip. _Should I tell him?_  
They had enough to deal with right then. Soon, certainly. He had the right to know, did he not? But right then, she had too much on her hands already. There was too much that had yet to be explained, his resistance to red lyrium first, along with the effects of it. She added it to a list of conversations they will have to eventually have.  
"Your advice would certainly help. I've been struggling with organizing patrols ever since Cullen left."  
" _Left?_ "  
She froze, realizing what slipped past her lips.  
"He didn't...leave the Inquisition for good. He simply...decided to oversee his troops personally. For a time. In Ferelden."  
Her hands were mechanically sorting through the letters. There were things she didn't say, still too obvious between the lines. _My actions cost the Inquisition its Commander. At the worst possible time._  
She could practically feel Samson's silence.  
She didn't turn around, until heavy footsteps alerted her to his approach.  
Finally looking up into his eyes, she was met with a wall of barely contained rage.  
"He _left_ Skyhold undefended?!"  
"No! I mean... He left _some_ of his troops behind. And he knows a siege on Skyhold is nearly impossible. He didn't...abandon us."  
Amelia's words sounded hollow even to herself. Because that was exactly what he did. He didn't _leave_ the Inquisition. He intended to see this through to the end; his letter, left on his desk, said as much. But it also made clear that it was out of his duty to the Maker and the people.  
_Not for her._  


_He didn't abandon **us**. He abandoned **me**. And I don't blame him._

She was looking into his eyes, watching the rage and resolve swirl there like a gathering storm, and slowly realized it wasn't _her_ that his rage was aimed at. It was Cullen.  
"We have our agents, scouts, and several mercenary companies. As well as the recruits, and soldiers our allies sent. We're not defenseless. He...only took his templars. The soldiers he personally trained."  
It did nothing to lessen the rage that burned in Samson's eyes. There was more, Amelia realized, then there was at his trial. More then when Cullen left Samson to die in his cell. There was something else, too - a resolve she didn't understand, and the dedication she didn't know what to do with.  
Another knock on the door.  
"Your Worship?"  
Not wanting to delve into whatever any of it meant right then, not when there was so much at stake, Amelia wordlessly headed towards the door. Samson followed close behind. She drew more comfort from that then she was ready to admit.


	18. Tenebrium

Pouring rain battered on the tent canvas, drowning out even the pitiful sighs of those unhappy souls on watch. It mercilessly beat down on the scouts' helmets, soaked into the Inquisition banners so thoroughly that they were hanging limp and lifeless; even the mounts shuffled nervously, picking at their feed and flicking their ears, unable to hear even the wind or the wildlife through the impenetrable sheet of rain.

The Inqusitor's mood was no better; Amelia, Dorian, and Cole gathered around the maps on the table in the central tent, sparing each-other the occasional exasperated glance in silence. The silence followed only after a futile, two-hour long attempt to agree on their next course of action. In the corner, Blackwall sat huddled on a chair, carving away at a piece of wood with his knife. Only his eyes, dark and alert, sometimes caught the candlelight - the rest of him was shrouded in darkness. He was trying to keep himself out of their discussion, out of the center of attention; it was so ever since the Inquisitor had brought him to Skyhold from the prisons of Val Royeaux.

"Remind me, why are we here again?" Dorian hissed through clenched teeth, though he was well aware of the reason. They have already discussed it, and read through the ostentatious letters bearing the royal seal.  
"Because our diplomatic relations with Val Royeaux are...precarious at best. To better them, the Empress has suggested clearing the Emerald Graves of all remaining rifts, demons, and other threats," Amelia recited mechanically, trying very hard not to look at Blackwall. The floor around his feet was covered by shavings of wood.  
"Other threats. So why," insisted Dorian again, "is the _Inquisitor_ required to be present, instead of just sending our troops?"  
Amelia sighed.  
"Because Val Royeaux believes that the Herald's presence will have a positive effect on morale, as well as serve as proof of our continued good intentions...and we _are_ somewhat short on troops right now."  
The last bit she forced through her teeth like it pained her, or like it was something that tasted particularly foul.  
"We may need the chevaliers," she added quietly, more for herself than the others.  
Dorian did not relent. The rain, and _Thom's_ presence, did no favors to his mood. The betrayal still stung.  
"So why don't we just let the two of you handle the whole situation while the rest of us make a nice cup of tea and relax by the..."  
"Dorian!"  
Amelia's hands came down on the map with more force than she intended.  
"You are not...helping...right now."  
Dorian watched her, his biting remarks dying before they left his lips. This was no longer a matter of him being inconvenienced, or even angry at Blackwall for keeping the truth from them. True, it was much like a barb left in Dorian's skin, but it was not something that could not be mended.  
However, Amelia looked haunted. For the first time in days, Dorian really looked at her.

She looked thinner then before, the dark shadows under her eyes betraying a lack of sleep.  
Sometimes, it didn't have to be one single thing, Dorian realized. It could be dozens, hundreds of little things, all adding up to place the weight of the world upon one's shoulders. He scolded himself, like once before, for not being as observant as he should have been. It had been weeks since Cullen left. His duties were shared among the remaining advisors, but a considerable part of them fell to Amelia, and it was something she wasn't prepared for. In addition to all the things she had to deal with, as the Inquisitor, as the Herald of Andraste. And all the politics. _And the assassins within the very walls of Skyhold._

But there was something else.

Something was eating away at her, something that had little to do with any of those things. He could tell that much.  
But what could it be, that she couldn't share it even with him?  
Dorian felt hurt, but he swiftly buried that feeling - this was not about him. She was there for him when he needed it - and he would do the same.  
"I'm...let's get back to the business at hand, shall we?" he asked, focusing his gaze on the map before them once more.  


The rain let up in the late afternoon. Still, the raindrops clung to the tall grass, soaking into their robes as they advanced towards the first of the remaining rifts. The setting sun shone through the glistening leaves, painting the forest with a breathtaking palette of gold, bronze, and orange, in addition to the gentle green. They walked in silence, listening to the birdsong which filled the air, and the sounds of their footsteps through the grass.  
Cole walked first in line, with Dorian and Amelia following, avoiding each-other's eyes. The disagreement from that morning was still hanging in the air between them, like guilt which the both of them felt.  
Blackwall trailed behind them, hand on the hilt of his sword, dark eyes alert.  
Cole suddenly stopped, causing Amelia and Dorian to almost collide with him.  
"Something's wrong."  
His soft words explained nothing; his eyes were unfocused, seeking something which the rest of them could not see.  
"Rage, boiling hot, and betrayal, red like retribution, like justice. She will set things right."  
Then Dorian noticed it too - there was no birdsong anymore; silence was hanging heavy in the air, there was no wind in the treetops, no life.  
Blackwall's sword slid free of its sheath.  
Dorian threw a barrier up at the last moment; arrows hissed by them.

Amelia felt it then, a familiar tension, a knot forming in her stomach, the low hum of power that one could _almost_ hear vibrating through the ground beneath her feet. She knew it from the Circle, and the rush of memories sickened her. She would have turned to Dorian, warned him, if the images didn't completely drown out everything else. They wouldn't have, if she was prepared - but she wasn't, and the world filled with screaming and the smell of lyrium and of burning.  
She tasted blood again, remembered with perfect clarity how her cheek collided with the cold marble of the hallway floor, splitting open. The heavy, sinking feeling in her stomach brought those images back; she was there once more, tasting blood and with an armored knee between her shoulder blades, her arms held at her back by gauntleted hands, as the templars were dragging a thin, frail figure down the hall, fighting and screaming.  
_"Sylen!!"_

It was mere seconds - to her it seemed like an eternity - and all she managed to do was raise her eyes to Dorian's. Then, the low thrum of power reached the crescendo. The Silence which she knew was coming hit, stripping the barrier, draining her of magic; it was like having the ground ripped from underneath you, like having your insides torn out, an aching abyss opened where there was once the flow of power. Like the blood in her veins turned to lead; she was left empty and hurting.

"Do not let the maleficar escape us!"

The sun reflected off the Templar armor, painting the Sword of Mercy emblazoned upon it in gold and the hues of flame.

The next arrow buried under her collarbone, carrying with it the flare of agony, like a falling star blossoming into fire.  



	19. Though All Before Me Is Shadow

Amelia woke up to the sun shining into her eyes. All around her there was the sound of movement, idle chatter of melodious voices, and the singing of birds. There was a scent of woodsmoke in the air, and of drying herbs.  
The rough tree bark was uncomfortable against her back, and she shifted.  
The lightest flutter of fingertips against her face, tucking stray hair behind her ear.  
She opened her eyes.  
She was met by the brightest smile on the most familiar face, she wasn't sure why such maddening sadness suddenly flared to life in her, but it mattered little, so she squished it.  
His narrow, freckled face - she knew every single mark, she could trace their constellations by memory alone, like she did a hundred times before - was framed by cascading, red hair. Tucked safely against his chest was a child, a girl, with the same mane of red hair, and with inquisitive eyes of sea-green, peering at Amelia with interest.  
"Good morning," he greeted Amelia, smiling warmly, his fingers a slight caress against her cheek.  
"Sylen. Where...what happened?" she asked, blinking against the morning sun.  
"You had a dream, love," he replied, shifting the girl in his arms, so he had a safer hold on her, before rising to his feet.  
"If you don't wake up, the clan may just leave without us."  
His teasing smile told that he was joking, but there was an unexplained abyss of grief in Amelia that she couldn't place nor define.  
"Leave?"  
"Yes, love. We didn't escape the Circle so that the clan could leave us behind, did we? Remember how hard we tried to reach them? Good thing that they've waited. Now, on your feet. I've made...well, it's edible?" he laughed.  
It was such familiar laughter. So where did the pain she felt come from, the grief, the regret? Confused, Amelia stood up, rubbing the ache out of her muscles, following after him.  
"How long was I asleep?"  
There was something that flickered briefly in his gaze, something that Amelia failed to see, taking in the aravels and the sunny plain around them.  
"Too long, my heart. But you are here now. You have everything you ever desired."  


 

 

"They say it was a demon."  
Samson paused in his pacing, the habit he'd picked up over the past days, to listen to the passing guards' hushed conversation.  
There wasn't anyone openly guarding _him_ anymore, not that he could see. Sometimes he felt like they treated him as if he were something defanged and declawed, some curiosity that the Inquisitor brought in to be gawked at. _Corypheus' general._ Samson had no doubt, however, that at any given time the eyes of Leliana's guards were on him, from some place up high, fingers on the bowstrings and arrows aimed at his throat should he take as much as a single step in the wrong direction.  
Perhaps it was that Lady Nightingale showed an exceptional amount of trust in him. But Samson wasn't that stupid. Good thing then, that he had absolutely no intention of running anywhere.

Since Amelia had gone to tend to her duties as Inquisitor, he remained in Skyhold, spending his days walking in circles like a caged animal, and pacing the battlements awaiting her return. There was some irony in how he waited for her, but Samson didn't care to think about it much, nor did he particularly care what others thought of it. He had no time to waste on that. Not with the war. Not with the red gnawing away at him. Not when he wasn't sure whether or not she would return, each time she went away.  
And yet he failed to tell her, even if he did have nothing to lose anymore. Every time he resolved to do so, he failed. _Tell her what?_ a part of him mocked. _Nothing she'd like to hear. You're useless. What would she want with you?_  
Really, what would he offer her? His allegiance? His sword arm? It was ridiculous. And it made him angry - at himself the most.  
And then there was the waiting. It was nigh unbearable. Right up there with _not knowing._ Funny, Samson though he'd made peace with things.  
_You thought you had nothing to lose, either._  
"No, it was the templars, I tell you. No one could have known where they were going. This is from _within_ Skyhold! It must be one of ours."  
One of the guards finally noticed Samson, leaning against the wall on the battlements, and paused to give him a withering look. The other, however, failed to notice anything, and continued:  
"They say the Herald's gonna die. Oh Maker, what if she does? I tell you, I've been there, Sister Nightingale got the letter not an hour ago..."  
At that, ice ran through Samson's veins. He stormed off, heading straight for the rookery.  



	20. I Shall Not Be Left to Wander

Amelia paused, confused, her eyes desperately searching the faces of nearby people for something she could hold on to. Something to explain the ache in her chest, the immeasurable grief. She felt there was something she ought to do. Something she forgot, right there at the edge of her thoughts, incredibly important.  
There was a face among the smiling people which didn't smile.  
A boy - a human boy - with white-blonde hair and pale eyes, who was looking straight at her.  
Sylen noticed him too - a look of rage crossed his elegant features, a look she'd never seen on him before.  
He set their daughter down, taking Amelia's face in his hands, and forced her to focus on him.  
His hands were cold.  
They were never as cold before.  
"No, love. I am here. Wasn't this what you wished for?"  
"It..."  
The pale boy was suddenly right beside them, serious and determined, focused on Amelia.  
"No," he said. "You must remember."

She blinked; Sylen's grip on her tightened. The boy was still there, ignoring Sylen, ignoring everyone else. His eyes were focused on Amelia alone.  
"I am here. I can help you. But you must remember."  
_Yes. There was something she had to remember. Something important she forgot._  
She took a step back. Sylen's face twisted in sudden rage, but he couldn't keep her.

She watched him for a moment, the frightening anger that marred his features. She lowered her eyes.  
"I know you."  
His visage flickered at her words, like solidified mist.  
"And I have denied you once before, Yearning."

He laughed then, a cold, cruel sound, not bothering to maintain the illusion anymore. The camp around them dissolved, fading into black mist and emerald green, into reflections and shadows.

"Twice. But you are right," he spoke, though no longer in Sylen's voice. This voice was like threat and promise, soft like a lover's, cold like death, slick like temptation. Twin horns erupted from his forehead curling upwards, his eyes turning into blank, twin wells of black flame.  
"Perhaps you would have liked me more if I looked like this."  
He shifted again, and Amelia was staring into _Samson's_ eyes, tainted red with blood and crystal, the same crystal that now jutted like broken bone from his skin.  
"You could have saved me, Amelia. Don't you want to save me?"  
The image shifted again, changing focus, and Sylen stood there once more, his read hair shaved close to his head, his eyes empty, the red sunburst brand still raw and bleeding.  
"You could have saved me, Amelia. But you didn't want to."

She took a step back, but there was another next to her; the boy with white-blonde hair, and _he_ didn't yield, his eyes now fixed on the demon and filled with cold determination.  
"Leave!"

Yearning laughed, shifting again to his original form, curling horns and black flame.

"While I am toying with you, they are trying to save you, Amelia. Dorian would be _so heartbroken_ if you died, you know. Perhaps I would promise him next what you had once refused. Oh, and Thom...he thought he loved you. Once. No longer. But I wonder, if I were to offer..."  
Cole stepped in front of her, a frown etched into his features, hands curled into fists.  
"You are not wanted here. You cannot have her."  
Yearning laughed again, cold and uncaring.  
"Perhaps you will let this one possess you, instead. Is that what you hope for, _Compassion_? To have this vessel all for yourself?"  
"I am NOT a demon! I am NOTHING like you!"  
Yearning's laughter echoed all around them, though his form dispersed into the mist.  
"Imagine how many people you could _help_ , if only you were ready for this _one_ small sacrifice. She might even let you."  
His attention shifted back to Amelia, and when he spoke next, it was to her:  
"Remember that I am always here, Amelia. When you need help most...you can ask for it. And you will. I have eternity, after all."

Echoing with his laughter, the world around them dissolved into light.

Amelia woke up to the sun shining into her eyes. All around her there was the sound of movement, idle chatter of melodious voices, and the singing of birds. There was a scent of woodsmoke in the air, and of drying herbs...  



	21. I Shall Not Fear

Leliana looked up as the doors were thrown open, her guards immediately reaching for their blades. She looked as if she was expecting him - perhaps she has.  
"Is it true?" Samson asked, not bothering with an introduction, his eyes falling to the crumpled letter held tightly in the Spymaster's hand. Her eyes, hard but not cold, somehow filled with sympathy, told him everything he needed to know.  
"Emerald Graves," she said; "here," pointing to a spot on the map spread across the table.  
The silence was deafening, constricting. Samson forgot to breathe.  
"Will she make it?"  
Silence.  
How could it have happened? The Inquisitor was in dozens of battles. She wasn't unprepared. She wasn't a novice.  
"How?"  
"We got word just now. It happened perhaps some hours ago, at most." Her network was efficient, but contemplating that was not something Samson was willing to devote time to just then.  
"They were...silenced. A group effort. Someone compromised our correspondence. A templar ambush waited for them. They... Dorian is doing the best he can. He... isn't a healer."  
_He's a necromancer._  
Supressing the horrifying thought, for a moment Samson simply stared into Leliana's eyes, as if he would find answers there. Having found none, he turned on his heel and stormed off, heading towards the stables.  
The guard at Leliana's side readied her bow, but the Spymaster's hand on her arm stopped her.  
"Let him go," she said. Her eyes fell back to the letter in her hand. "Alert our patrols to let him pass. Sometimes we must trust in the Maker."  


 

  
Her hand was cold and lifeless in Dorian's, and were it not for his magic, he could have missed the faint pulse of life in her veins. It was also painfully obvious to him that, were it not for magic, the pulse _would not have been there_ at all. It was a wonder that they made it back to camp.  
With exceptional effort, he tore his eyes from Amelia's face, pale and bloodless, to look at his silent companions at her bedside. The Inquisitor's tent had been chosen as it offered the most space - the war maps were still there, sitting mockingly on the table, many of them now ruined by the spilled potions and healing salves, bloodied on the account of the pieces of cloth the healer carelessly left there in her hurry. No one had the time or cared enough to remove them. Not that it mattered.  
Cole was sitting by Amelia's side, staring at her face unblinking, her other hand clasped in both of his. Dorian had some understanding of what Cole was doing, and he did all he could to disturb their connection as little as possible. Blackwall stood further away, as if unsure what to do with himself, not wanting to be in the way and not wanting to leave. Much like everyone else, he too was silent, worry written plain on his face, his own fatigue and injuries forgotten as the life of his companion and commander was hanging by a thread. None of them had taken the time to wash the marks of the battlefield off their faces, or change out of their bloodstained armor.  
Dorian looked to the exasperated healer, who immediately spoke, as if she had been waiting for a cue, or did not want to disturb the silence. Her robes were bloody and her face betrayed her exhaustion, but her words were still sharp, and displeased.  
"I don't understand... I did all I could."  
Dorian noted the fear in her voice.  
_You don't want to be blamed if the Inquisitor dies._  
He swallowed the bitterness on his lips.  
"There is nothing more you could have done," Blackwall suddenly spoke, reassuring the healer. Or himself, Dorian thought. He wasn't certain.  
The healer gave a stiff bow and hurried out, as if wanting to be rid of the oppressive silence and their tentative hope. Dorian returned his gaze, somewhat haunted, to Amelia's face. Shadows of the candlelight there were unkind. He tightened his grip on her hand, finding her weakened pulse, if only to reassure himself.  


Suddenly, a hand gripped his arm almost painfully, and he looked up to meet Cole's pale eyes, alert and fixed on his own.  
"It's not the arrow. It found her, it waited, for when she was weak. And now, it's holding on, and it won't let go. I'm not strong enough." He spoke, his voice trembling, but filled with what Dorian understood as determination. "I can't do it, not as I am. But I can fix it. If I can't, the healer, he can help, he knows how to. He did it in Kirkwall, when nothing else could help. When they were too far gone." Cole fell silent for a moment. "His name was Airen. He was hiding, since Kirkwall, since the Gallows, since Meredith. He was hiding from others, hiding from himself, too. But he only ever helped. The blood was only his, always his, never from others. Never."  
Dorian looked to Amelia, then to Cole again, connecting the pieces of the puzzle, understanding dawning on him. It settled like lead in the pit of his stomach. He fought the rising nausea. Cole's eyes were like cold fire, both desperate and determined, unearthly pale in the semi-darkness.  
"If I can't. He can help. He knows how to." He paused, looking away from Dorian's eyes, at Amelia, before meeting Dorian's gaze again. "But if I'm not me at the end, if I can't go back, they need to kill me. They need to kill us."  
Dorian was silent for a moment, swallowing the bitterness, the despair and the disgust that felt like poison. He nodded.  
What other choice did they have?  


 

 

Earth and rock crunched under the hooves of the great warhorse as its rider pulled on the reins. Its flanks shone with perspiration. Yet, the camp was expecting no patrols that day. A scout approached, eyeing carefully the disheveled rider, who seemed to be in no better condition than his mount. His hair was windswept, cloak and armor stained from the road, a faint sheen of perspiration clinging to his bloodless face and mirroring the alarmed gleam in his eyes. He dismounted, breathless, scanning the camp with a mixture of fear and concern in his eyes, instead of offering a greeting.  
"Commander Cullen?"  



	22. I Remembered For Them

The clouds parted, spilling the fist light of dawn over the aravels. The night chill, in turn, subsided, releasing its grip on the plains, leaving in its wake dew on the tall grass.  
Already, the clan was awake and hard at work, getting ready to depart and journey across the vast open plains.  
Securing the last crate with a dew-soaked rope, Amelia wiped her hands on her robes, and smiled at her daughter, who was playing by her side, creating small wisps of light and watching them dance above her fingertips, tiny stars late to follow after their sisters, remaining even in the light of dawn.  
Amelia watched her, that peculiar everpresent sadness heavy in her chest.  
But what was she mourning?  
She watched the child for a while more, her mane of red hair - the spitting image of Sylen, except for the eyes. Her eyes were the mirror of Amelia's own, the familiar sea-green, now reflecting the dancing motes of light.  
What was she mourning? Why that terrible sadness, when she had everything she wished for?  


"I am so, so sorry."  
Amelia whirled around, to see who had spoken, and only then noticed the creeping mist that silently spilled over the plain to embrace the aravels.  
Where was her clan?  
There was a figure in the mist, a lone, pale shade in the midst of its tendrils, brighter than the gathered shadows, brighter, somehow, than the pale touch of dawn.  
Like mother-of-pearl, like the moon, a lone young man who was the embodiment of her sorrow.  
Somehow, he was more solid than the plains around him, constant amidst the shifting shadows.  
Amelia looked to her daughter, who didn't seem to have noticed anything, her freckled face illuminated by the dancing lights in her hands. She seemed like someone's dream - hers, perhaps; but no more solid than the shadows before waking, part of the world no more there than the mist around them.  
"I am so sorry, Amelia."  
The boy was suddenly beside her, his pale eyes on hers.  
"But you must remember."  
The abyss of grief yawned open beneath her ribs, bidding her remember, bidding her to _wake_.  
_There was something she had forgotten._  
"C-Cole?"  
He raised his hand, but didn't touch her, his fingers stopping inches above her arm.  
"Please trust me. We can fight him, together. But you have to trust me. You have to...let me help."  
Fear flared to life in her; she searched his eyes, but found no deception there. They burned with a pale fire, brighter than the mist, brighter than the dawn.  
"Cole?" she asked again, her voice growing more certain.  
There was something there, something in that name, something she _almost_ could remember.  
"You will understand. Please, let me help. I can help."  
His fingers hovered above her arm, their cold seeping into her skin.  
"You must trust me. It's the only way. I...can...help."  
When next she heard his words, it was in her mind - his lips didn't move.  
"What did you dream of?"  
"I-"  
What _did_ she dream of?  
Images emerged, racing through her mind.  
It was...  
_It was a fortress, high above the mountain-side, a sanctuary of life amidst the frozen peaks. Flags fluttered above its parapets, proud in the morning breeze._  
Skyhold.  
_Skyhold._  
_And before that..._  
_It was such a painful dream, full of fire, and loss, and sorrow._  
_But also..._  
_He seemed to be asleep, in the candlelight, upon the silks of her bed, the veins under his skin so visible that she could trace them with her fingers, dark shadows under his eyes, but he looked so peaceful._  
_It was such a painful dream, one she was sure would slip through her fingers with the first light of dawn._  
_But so beautiful._  
_So worth its pain._  
"You must remember."  
_A hand on her shoulder, a haven, a comfort, dark skin and gold, the comforting scent of old books and incense._  
Dorian.  
_Red hair in the breeze, the calling of crows. A blade catching sunlight. Spilled ink on the parchment._  
Leliana? Blackwall?...Varric?  
"All of them."  
One by one, she remembered, pieces sliding into place.  
"This...isn't real."  
_A threadbare shawl. The smell of spices. A hand against the iron bars._  
Raleigh.  
She drew a breath; it felt like the first in too long, the world of mist and shadows around her fading with its bittersweet illusions, the world that _almost_ was, the child she _almost_ knew.  
_A world that wasn't._  
_A world that will never be._  


The sound of a sole pair of hands clapping reverberated through the thick mist.  
And he stepped out, finally without any of his illusions.  
Skeletally thin, his eyes wells of black flame, twin horns curling upwards above a mane of fiery hair.  
On his cheeks, the familiar constellations; the traits he wore like trophies, plucked out of her memories, and made a permanent part of his being.  
"Well done, Compassion," he mocked, with a malevolent smile on his perfectly sculpted lips.  
"Pour a little more of yourself into her, and you will have a new vessel. Only, did she not mention? It's...already occupied."  
He was still smiling, something in his smile reminiscent of a snake.  
Cole met his gaze silently, anger almost a tangible aura around him.  
"You become too human, Compassion." Yearning commented, his voice dripping with amusement.  
"She seems to collect us. I was not enough, no. Now the Sorrows, too." His empty eyes found Amelia's. "You are insatiable," he laughed.  
"But I digress. You _have_ beaten me at my little game. By exactly the means I intended." The corners of his lips curled upwards.  
"So I leave you to your companions, who doubtlessly have been at your bedside for days." His smile widened.  
"Remember, Amelia, that I am always there. When you are most _desperate_ for help, you need only ask...and at such a paltry price. I am sure my help will be needed. The battlefield is _such_ a dangerous place. Would you not do _anything_ for your friends? Anything so you don't have to be alone again? And the red, oh, the red is so merciless."  
With a wide, wicked smile on his lips, he turned around, adding over his shoulder before he disappeared into the mist:  
"Take good care of her for me, Compassion. Because I _will_ want her back."  


The first thing Amelia became aware of is that the dull, throbbing ache in her chest was nothing compared to the aching stiffness of her muscles. Her robes felt uncomfortable, too heavy and sticking to her skin, and whatever she was lying on was no better. Carefully, she opened her eyes, and with no small effort focused on the blurry thing above her.  
Tent canvas. Awash in candlelight. Trying to look around caused two things: a flare of pain in her neck and the sudden awareness of someone's hand in hers. Her stirring had caused that someone to bolt upright - she was met with the bleary and bloodshot eyes of Dorian Pavus.  
"Kaffas!"  
He blinked the sleep away, focusing on Amelia's face, realization dawning upon him.  
"Oh, by the...! Maker's holy... Amelia. You're awake," he breathed.  



	23. Scars Beyond Counting

The first thing that Samson realized, aside from the madness of setting out from Skyhold with no supplies, no weapons, and not a single vial of lyrium, was that no one outside truly knew who he was.  
Sure, he'd get questioning and pitying looks from those few farmers still brave enough to tend to their fields during the war, but he soon realized that without the armor, without Corypheus' shadow, no one could tell Red Templar general Raleigh Samson from the next poor fool without a coin to his name, who lost all he had to the war.  
The second thing he learned was that riding day and night, without stopping, and without any food was a fool's choice indeed, templar training or not.  
The third thing he'd learned, the lesson that stung deepest, was that people were still kind.  


Not everyone, sure, but the kindness gathered stubbornly around the cooking fires of the refugees, everywhere plain and common folk gathered; poor folk of Ferelden, of Orlais, of Free Marches, wherever - the one thing the people _didn't_ have in common was the language they spoke.  
They all shared the same story: of fire, of destruction, of death that came wearing armor of red crystal.  
So when he was first mistaken for a villager fleeing the destruction of his home, he kept his mouth shut; accepted the torn blanket handed to him without protest, sat by the fire and _listened_.  
Nothing could fully chase the thought of her from his mind, but the fear that drove him forward could do nothing to change one merciless truth: he was of no use to Amelia dead.  
The first night was the worst; he nearly toppled from the saddle in the midst of wilderness; hunger and exhaustion would have been his end, had he not noticed the fires.  
The cream-colored stallion he'd taken from the stables in his hurry nipped angrily at him, and Samson decided that even if it would have been fair for _him_ to perish in the wilderness, the animal deserved no such fate.  
Not trusting himself to remain in the saddle, he dismounted and, clenching his teeth at the thought of delay, lead the horse through the brush, and towards the fires. As late as he may arrive, at least he _would_ arrive. He was of no use to Amelia dead.  
He wasn't entirely sure he was of any use to her alive; but he'd pushed the incessant dark thoughts away, focusing instead on the voices in the camp, stories told in at least four different languages.  
But all the stories were the same: terror, and pain, and death that came with red crystal.  


The watery stew was near-impossible to swallow, not with the testimonies of his blame in his ears, but he forced himself to eat, fighting nausea, though he was absolutely certain he was worthy of none of their hospitality.  
If they knew...  
If they knew the man they fed, the man they offered shelter to, was the same man responsible for the deaths of their loved ones...  
No, not a man, Samson corrected himself. A monster.  
Still, he kept silent, kept his demons safely inside him, and listened.  


The third day he came across a farm still standing; a pitiful wooden thing barely holding together, with an old man in the field in front of it.  
He looked up when Samson approached, leaning against his spade and squinting against the sun, eyeing warily the great cream-colored warhorse, moreso than its rider.  
Samson gripped the reins tighter, for nothing more than to hide the shaking of his hands.  
The man watched him for a moment, with caution written plainly on his weathered face, before greeting him.  
"Andraste protect you. Where are you going, son?"  
Samson nearly flinched at the once-familiar greeting. He collected himself.  
"And you. Emerald Graves."  
The man watched him, as if appraising his words.  
"You with the Inquisition?"  
Samson swallowed.  
"Hoping - hoping to join."

_Why did he say that?_

But before he could think about his reasons for that particular choice of words, the man pulled the spade from the dirt and gestured to Samson.  
"A long way to go. Come with me son. Have some water."  
Samson would have refused, but the sun was indeed merciless,and he reminded himself that the Inquisitor had no use for bones picked clean by the vultures at the side of the road.  
Dismounting, he followed the old man.  


Once his warhorse was given water and lead to shade, Samson himself followed the man into the soothing cool of the modest house.  
The worn wooden floor was swept clean; there was barely enough room for the set of rickety chairs and an old table. In the corner, there was a simple bed, with a small picture of Andraste above it.  
Most out of place in the small home was a gleaming sword on the wall, and a shield emblazoned with a mark Samson would recognize anywhere, for he himself had spent a good part of his life carrying it.  
"Belonged to my wife, Maker keep her soul," the old man said, with a gleam of pride in his eye, when he noticed Samson looking. "She was in the Order. Made them proud, she did. Made me proud."  
He gestured for Samson to sit, which he did, before turning to rummage through a small collection of mismatched mugs and plates.  
"Got a name, son?"  
Samson cleared his throat, feeling more and more like a trespasser, an enemy, someone who had no right being there.  
"I-Raleigh."  
"Not from here, are you son? Neither am I. But first I saw my Adeline, I followed."  
He chuckled, wiping dust off a pitcher with a threadbare rag.  
"These don't get much use since she passed, bless her; the boys' gone with the Order - haven't heard from them for a long time now."  
Samson swallowed, his throat burning. He didn't want to hear. He had to know.  
"What were their names?"  
The old man laughed.  
"The older one's named Joseph - after me," he laughed, "and the younger is Louis, after my wife's father." He paused, his gaze unfocused, his lips curling into a smile. "She was a fire, my Adeline. They would write if only she was alive, you'd see..."  
Samson released a breath he only then realized he was holding. He didn't know the names. He couldn't know them all, and yet it was a small mercy, to know there were some fates he wasn't responsible for, some lives he didn't ruin.  
Unaware of Samson's doubts, the old man continued.  
"I'll just go to the well, I'll be just a moment, you stay here..."  
Samson moved to stand - intending to go in his stead - but the old man shook his head with a knowing smile, clasping one weathered hand around Samson's wrist, as if to keep him still.  
"No, son. It will only make it worse."  
Samson frowned, opening his mouth to ask, but the man simply shook his head again, motioning to the gleaming shield on the wall.  
"I ain't blind, son. Spent my life with a templar. A damned good one, Maker forgive me. Trust me, it will only make it worse. Save your strength."  
Obediently, Samson sat down again, wanting nothing more than to leave. He observed the marks in the wood of the table, etched into its surface through the years of use. Motes of dust caught in a sunbeam, briefly golden. His eyes were drawn to the shield on the wall, the proud Sword of Mercy, illuminated by the sun, kept immaculately clean all those years by the old farmer though everything else around him fell to ruin.

_Faith._  
_That's what faith is._

And Samson had it, once, before the streets of Kirkwall, before the blue and the red, before the chains he was expected to force upon others and the chains forced upon himself.  
After that, nothing remained.  
The words of the Chant came unbidden to his mind, the words he so often repeated he knew them by heart even after they meant nothing anymore.  
_Nothing can break me except Your absence._

His thoughts, as always, returned to Amelia.  
In the moments when his mind remained unguarded, the thoughts of her crept back, like a vice around his heart; the letter crumpled in the Spymaster's hand. The hushed, terrified voices of the guards.  
_They say the Herald's gonna die._  
Maker. What if she does?  
_Nothing can break me except your absence._ __

Minutes trickled by.  
Silent, and agonizing. Dust danced, suspended in a sunbeam before the Sword of Mercy, golden for its brief moment in eternity.  
Then came the crash, and the sound of snapping wood. A broken scream.  
Samson leapt to his feet, his eyes sweeping the room for anything he could use as a weapon. Above all, he was a practical man, and an apology can come later.  
He grabbed the sword from its place; it fit in his hand like an extension of him, like a long-lost friend eager for a reunion. The weight of the shield, too, was familiar, a long-forsaken comfort.  
But he would think of that later.

He was at the door in a moment, circling around the side of the house, where he remembered the well stood.  
Only, there was no well anymore.  
A pile of planks, broken and bloodstained, and in their midst, a body, equally broken.  
Sun reflected off the misshapen metal of the helmets, shattered as it passed through the facets of red crystal jutting through the metal.  
Eyes that met Samson's were empty of anything but agony, unending rage. The briefest flicker of recognition appeared in their tortured depths, dying just as soon.  
But he knew those eyes.  
A memory that seemed worlds apart from him resurfaced.

_Battle plans strewn across the table. A scout at his side, wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand._  
_"They've...held a funeral for Maddox. General. Sir."_

The thing before him now - a mountain of corrupted flesh, feeding the sharp, jagged edges that burst forth from it - had those familiar eyes.  
Samson knew him by name.  



	24. Remember the Fire

Samson grimaced, pressing his palm against the - thankfully, shallow - cut across his stomach, when his warhorse's careless step on the rocky terrain sent a fresh jolt of pain through it. He was eager to put as many miles as possible between himself and the funeral pyre he left behind, but he still carried its glare like an imprint inside his eyelids, he could feel the ghost of its heat on his back, as he suspected he will for a long time after. Despite the fact that no one recognized the red templar general in the exhausted, sickly-looking man dressed in torn, dirt and blood encrusted rags, he still chose to keep off the road; at least until the remains of the farmhouse slipped out of sight.  
He had no healing salve, but the bleeding had already stopped - what would remain behind is just another reminder of his failures; not pretty to see, but ultimately harmless. _Like myself._ A weak laugh escaped his lips at the self-deprecating thought, but the rational part of him silenced his laughter.  
_Harmless - unless it gets infected._  
He'd seen enough of that during his days on the streets of Kirkwall. Suddenly, he didn't feel much like laughing anymore.  
The blade had barely grazed him, but he hadn't been prepared for the sheer savagery of the attack.  
_Perhaps I've grown soft._  
_Why didn't you stand down?_  
_Maker damn it all._  
What kind of a general cut down his own soldiers?  
But deep down, Samson knew it was of no use. When the red claimed them, it claimed flesh and mind both. There was nothing of the blacksmith's son left in that creature that would not stand down, and would not cease attacking. It was a truth Samson hated to face.  
_He was still my templar. My responsibility._  
He could still feel the heat of the funeral pyre on his back.  


 

The sun was already dipping behind the horizon, but he couldn't have left them like that, not the old farmer, and not any of his soldiers - all of them dead because of him.  
_And how many more?_  
It was just more blood on his hands.  
Did it even make a difference anymore?  
Anything he touched would be stained with it, infected by the slowly growing agony he carried within him, and consumed by it.  
His hands tightened on the reins as unwanted images invaded his mind. Morning sun, falling through the stained glass windows of her quarters, falling upon her as she stood before her gilded mirror...breaking upon the sickly red embedded in her skin.  
Her, looking up at him with pleading eyes, sea-green green slowly but surely overtaken by the color of blood, of rage, of hunger.  
_Maker, no. Anything, anything but that._  
He looked down at his hands, noting that they were shaking, but that had nothing to do with the everpresent need which was waking, and everything with his realization that even if she did, by some miracle, saw something of worth in him...  
He recalled his own words, spoken at his trial.  
_'The red lyrium will steal your vengeance. You know what it does.'_  
When he first accepted it, he had nothing to lose. He couldn't imagine, then, that he would have anything to lose ever again.  
Now...  
He swallowed dryly, willing the thoughts away.  


 

When he reached the next of the scattered camps, he was already in a bad state.  
He calculated the days carefully, but the unplanned battle took more from him than he expected.  
He wasn't so far gone as not to be able to focus, but he could no longer hide the tremors. And he knew that soon, what little sleep he was able to get would be bringing familiar nightmares. Sooner, probably, than he hoped, taking into account the strain and exhaustion.  
So, suppressing the horror he felt at the though of delay, he resolved to spend the night at the camp, if they'd accept him.  


 

They did, and soon he was sitting by the fire with a stale piece of greyish bread in his hands, leaning against the remains of a wall, which shielded the flame from the chill wind that picked up after nightfall.  
The camp was at the site where a village once stood - from what he could catch, it had been wiped out by soldiers. Under whose command, Samson hadn't heard. All the refugees talked about were their blades, and the cries that came after.  
There were a few dozen people, at most, all of them with the same haunted look in their eyes, with nothing to their name but the clothes on their backs and what little food they shared among themselves.  
Samson's eyes fell to a blonde woman in a torn and tattered dress that was not too long ago likely the height of orlesian fashion, who spoke with such anger in her voice that he found himself forced to listen.  
"And that...that _Tevinter puppet_ ," she exclaimed, obviously seeking words as hurtful as possible. Several voiced their displeasure, but she just turned her fiery gaze to them. "It is true! I had seen it! She is keeping the Redcliffe's magister in Skyhold, where he is poisoning the faithful against the Chantry! Was it not enough, what he had done to turn the unfortunate against their rightful guardians?"  
A young man with coppery hair, about nineteen years of age at best, but with a steel-like determination in his eyes, glared at her. He was a templar, Samson realized; he had not even bothered to change out of his armor, which clearly was newly made; the otherwise gleaming templar insignia was spattered by probably the first drops of blood to ever touch it. His arm was wrapped tightly around the waist of a youth - barely more than a boy, no older than eighteen - with wide, terrified eyes; the look that Samson recognized as that of a mage for the first time out of the Circle - given his youth, likely an unharrowed one.  
The woman paid no heed, anger flashing in her eyes as she lowered her voice to a hiss, laden with venom.  
"And a qunari, too. She is a mockery of everything the Chantry stands for. Even Corypheus' general..." she leaned forward, as if to share a particularly scandalous secret with the gathered crowd. "She keeps _him_ in her quarters."

"The Lioness would never!"

All turned to look at the young mage, his brown eyes terrified but steel in his voice unmistakable.  
"She is Commander Rutherford's beloved! She would never, ever betray that!" Apparently, it was something close to the mage's heart, and Samson assumed it had much to do with the red-haired boy in brand new templar armor, whose arm tightened protectively around his lover's waist as dozens of eyes settled on them.  
Samson lost what little appetite he had, a curious mixture of anger and hurt swirling in his stomach as the words sank in.  
_The Lioness._  
Unaware of Samson's thoughts, the young mage continued addressing the crowd.  
"Louis' cousin saw them;" his eyes briefly flickered to his lover, as if seeking affirmation. He found it in a barely perceptible nod, and continued: "he saw them fight together at Adamant." His voice trembled slightly, as if he was unused to addressing so many people. "That is how a mage and a templar _should_ fight."  
Against his better judgement, Samson spoke.  
"And how did they fight?"  
Both the young mage and his lover looked at him, along with several others. Samson cursed inwardly.  
"He protected her," the young mage said, as if it was something self-evident, "while she used her magic. They..." he swallowed, obviously nervous but resolute. "They fought as equals."  
Several in the crowd frowned, and a few openly glared at the young mage and his lover. Samson had seen that look before - every time there was a newly-discovered mage to take to the Circle, the eyes of the villagers would harbor the same hatred.  
_This is what the Chantry teaches them._  
Ire flared to life in Samson's chest, though now it had nothing to do with Cullen and Amelia in particular. His hand slipped to the hilt of the sword at his side out of long habit.  
"You're right," he spat. "They should be equals."  
Those in the crowd that eyed the young couple with open animosity, watched _him_ with much more caution. Unlike the boy, Samson himself bore scars that spoke of experience - his grip on the hilt of his sword told of years of use, and he could see that even the most vehement among the crowd could tell as much.  
He didn't wish to turn that blade against any of them - they were only afraid - but he also knew what kind of monsters fear made of men. He wished he didn't have to draw a blade against anyone, ever again; but he knew despair and what it did to a heart, he knew that perhaps better than anyone.  
Luckily, his confidence seemed to have been enough, even if it was largely false. He was in no shape to fight.  
The gathered crowd dispersed, withdrawing one by one to forget their worries in the embrace of sleep.  
Samson himself left the fire among the last, curling up on the torn blanket he was given, focusing on his breathing to stave off the clawing need that awoke like a starving beast in the void of his chest. He knew he would get no sleep that night. It was almost a mercy, because the nightmares that would follow were worse.

Some hours before dawn, he heard light footsteps behind him, drawing close to his sleeping spot at the base of a crumbled wall - he didn't stir. Let them think he was asleep.  
But no blade came to rest against his throat, there was no dagger in the dark seeking his heart, nor a sickle in the trembling hands of some farmer who, having recognized him, resolved to protect his family against the monster in their midst.  
Instead, something was placed on the torn blanket by his head - a small vial glimmering an unmistakable blue, inexpertly wrapped in a piece of coarse fabric.  
Samson heard the intake of breath, a trembling voice barely a whisper: "Thank you, Ser. Louis... Louis said you should have this. He says that they would have turned on us, that they realized I was a...a mage. Were it not for you..." His voice wavered. "We'll...we'll manage. Not long left to travel, now. His father's farm is close; he said he didn't visit for a while, but now, with the Circles gone... We'll go...we'll go right now, before anyone's awake."  
The young mage cut off his nervous rambling; Samson heard him swallow, and fidget for a moment before he turned on his heel and stole away the way he came.  
It took Samson all he had to swallow the hatred he felt for himself at that moment.  


 

He left early, before most of the camp was awake. The single vial of lyrium helped immensely, even if it felt like liquid flame when he forced himself to take it.  
_This is what you always do, don't you? Take the things you don't deserve._  
But he forced the thoughts of what he - albeit, unknowingly - did to the young couple out of his mind.  
Perhaps when - _if_ , whispered a voice in his mind - he reached Amelia, he could ask her to help, to make it right somehow.  
_How long will you ask of her to set right the mistakes **you** make?_  
Clenching his teeth, he urged the horse into gallop.  


 

Only when the night was already falling did he stop; it was by a stream of clear water, already in the shade of the ancient trees of the Emerald Graves. He was thankful for the water that for once did not carry along any of the signs of war - no burned timber, no fallen trees, and no bodies. It was like a different world, a quiet, untouched place under the massive branches. A part of him was comforted by the thought that there were still untouched places, places the war did not yet reach.  
_Unless he wins. Then there will be nothing left._  
Samson used the chance to wash away his days on the road, the layers of dust and sweat and dried blood. He stripped his tunic and knelt by the stream, watching the water change color as he scrubbed the dirt from his skin mercilessly. He scrubbed at the dried spots of blood on his arms, the stream carrying it away.  
_So much for untouched._  
As much as he scrubbed at his skin, it never felt clean. The memory of the funeral pyre burned too brightly, he could still taste ash. Finally, he gave up and stripped entirely, entering the cold water and letting it wash away everything that it could. He did what he could to wash the ash and the blood from his clothes, too.  
It didn't help much with his conscience, but it washed away the marks of the road from him at the very least. That, and he felt less exhausted than he had in days. This, however, might have had more to do with the fact he finally reached the Emerald Graves. His thoughts wandered back to Amelia, as they too often did. Guilt twisting like something alive in his stomach, he looked away from his reflection on the surface of the water, and proceeded to put on his - by then, almost dry - clothes.  
He had no time to waste.

 

 

"I'm fine, really!" Amelia waved away Blackwall's hand, offered in an attempt to steady her. "It's enough you make me wear this horrible thing." she tugged on the collar of a voluminous fur cloak wrapped around her. "You act as if I'm on my deathbed."  
"You _were_." Blackwall reminded her darkly.  
Before she could come up with a witty reply, Dorian appeared from the central tent, a stack of parchment in his hands.  
"Word from Solas," he announced simply. "Regarding your...spirit situation. Also, news from Leliana."  
He seemed reserved, regarding Amelia with an appraising look. Amelia sighed.  
"I've been dealing with letters since I could stand up. They've been arriving for days. With all the ravens, you'd think something died here."  
She laughed at her own rather morbid joke, then fixed her gaze on Blackwall.  
"I'll be fine, Thom. It's just a _walk_."  
"After what happened, I'd not let you..." he seemed to rethink his words. "It's not just about _you_."  
She cut him off, anger flashing in her eyes. "It's about what I _represent_ to the _people_ , right, and we can't be risking that!" Her voice was sharper than usual. "I am a _person,_ Thom, not just a symbol to protect for the sake of the _people_." Her voice softened, if only a fraction. "I am also a perfectly capable mage. It was an ambush, that's all. Anyone who'd try anything now, well..." she raised her hand and formed a ball of flame above her fingertips to prove her point, before letting it die. "Let's just say they're in for a very, very ugly surprise."  
Blackwall opened his mouth to speak, seemingly unconvinced, but thought better once he saw the look on Amelia's face.  
"We hold the Emerald Graves for miles. Our scouts combed the area _thrice_. And I am not a child. Damn it, this makes me feel like I'm back in the Circle!"  
That rendered both Dorian and Blackwall silent.  
Realizing she may have been too harsh, Amelia offered a tired smile.  
"I'll be fine, just...let me think for a bit. I won't go far. Please."  
Watching her silently for a moment, at last Dorian nodded.  
"Fine. But if Leliana asks..."  
"...you never let me out of your sight," she finished for him, before her expression softened into affection.  
"I know this seems like the most foolish thing, I know you're just worried, and I know that you're essentially _right_ , but, trust me, when you've spent most of your life in the Circle, always being watched..."  
Dorian nodded again, this time avoiding her eyes.  
"Fine, just...be careful."  
Smiling gratefully, she drew the cloak closer around her, turning to the barely-used path between the trees.

 

Once he entered the shadows of the great trees, Samson felt almost as if he had entered a sanctuary - some place ancient and sacred. The Inquisition camp could not have been too far away - he saw several ravens fly overhead, doubtlessly bearing news.  
_Maker, let her be alive. Let her be fine._  
Raleigh Samson had long since ceased being a man of faith, but at that moment, with the shadows of night gathering around him, the first fireflies like minuscule stars in the tall grass, and the soft song of the wind in the leaves, he could almost have believed his prayers answered.

He saw her standing there, under the branches of an ancient tree, a fur cloak around her shoulders. She looked more frail, the shadows under her eyes deeper than the last time he saw her, but it was unmistakably her.

Samson dismounted, leaving his warhorse behind, and approached her, half afraid she would disappear, turn to mist and ashes like too often in his dreams, leaving him alone to call her name.  
So he didn't, he did not allow it to cross his lips as she turned around, having heard his footsteps.  
Her eyes widened, lips parted in what was a soundless whisper of his name, before Samson closed the distance between them and swept her up into his arms.  



	25. Armored in Light

He held her, letting her presence, her now-familiar magic, wash over him like salvation.  
He could breathe again.  


Remembering himself, he recoiled; certainly she didn't want him touching her - for his hands to be on her skin felt like sacrilege.  
But before he could apologize, before he could explain, she kissed him.  


It froze him to the spot, the _reality _of her lips on his - their warmth, the bitterness of elfroot, and the lingering sweetness of honey.__  
It was no longer a fragmented dream, half remembered between waking and sleep, and replayed in his mind to stave off the silence of his cell. She was _real, and solid, and there_ , she was kissing him like some starving thing, kissing him in a way that made him feel like he had worth.  
It broke something in him, shattered it, reduced that part of his soul to nothing, and he found himself kissing her back, fervently and desperately, and less gentle than he should have been.  
_Maker, I almost lost you._  


He paused only to catch his breath, brushing strands of hair from her face with shaking hands.  
Almost as if he himself had no say in it, he held onto her like a lifeline, like she might disappear. The warmth of her seeped into him, anchoring him. And he could breathe.  
Right then, she felt like a beacon in the dark, the only real thing there was, something he could hold on to.  
His breath caught at the thought that it was _real_ , the fact that _she_ was in his arms, and did not break away. Not the Herald or the Inquisitor, but Amelia Trevelyan. His ruin. And his hope.  
And he almost lost her.  
"Maker, Amelia."  


When he released her and pulled away, she looked up into his eyes, and a shadow of fear passed fleetingly over his heart; but there was no disgust he feared he would see in her gaze. There was a question however, a tentative hope.  
"Raleigh?"  


He swallowed, uncertain what she expected him to say, and looked away. The camp was far enough for the distance to mute its noise, leaving them to the song of nocturnal birds and the rustling of leaves in the wind. She spoke again, her voice quiet, but perfectly audible in the stillness of the night.  
"Raleigh...why are you here?"  
She reached out as if to touch him, doubt stopping her fingers inches away from his chest, lingering there like an unanswered question.  


His eyes locked onto hers again.  
"Don't you know?" he asked, his mouth suddenly dry. She merely watched him, waiting for him to speak, and he was suddenly all too aware of who and _what_ he was, from the calluses on his hands and the fact he had nothing to his name, to the generous gifts of the red eating him alive; the bruises, the sunken cheeks, the thinning hair. He felt more pathetic than ever, and yet, debating on what to tell her, he finally settled on the truth. As pathetic as he thought that truth to be, still he wanted - _needed_ her to know it.  


He took a step closer, and she didn't pull her hand away; her palm coming to rest on his chest, his heartbeat there under her fingertips. And like that he told her, the simple, plain truth, holding her gaze.  
"Not much is left of me; but for what it's worth, it's yours. All of it. Has been for a while now." He smiled bitterly, both resigned acceptance and sadness bleeding through. "Not that it's of much use - but it's yours. All of me."  


He expected a flare of alarm in her eyes. He expected disgust - old habits die hard - or anger. He expected her to be cold, to pull away from him, to say it was a mistake, to ask him how he dared to say those things, how he dared to besmirch her by even thinking she might sink so low as to touch him willingly.  


Instead, he got silence, her eyes wide with surprise. There was a brief flicker of desperation there, which he might have imagined.  
"This is wrong," she whispered. "I am your jailor."  
But her hand remained resting over his heart.  
He shook his head. "No," he said, his voice rough with exertion of a confession he never thought he would make. "You saved me. Maker knows it was more than I deserved. Cullen had the right of it, leaving me in that cell. That boy, the one who pulled the knife on me - I'm the reason his mother and sister are dead."  


_Now_ there was fire in her eyes, cold flame of anger and determination.  
"No," she cut him off, pulling away from him and curling her hands into fists at her side. He almost flinched at the loss of her warmth, but remained silent as she spoke with cold fire in her eyes. "Corypheus is. Corypheus, who used the desperation of hundreds to turn them to his cause. Corypheus, who sees a man chained and yanks that chain to make a weapon for himself. And I promise you, Raleigh, he will pay for what he has done."  


There was literal fire, flames springing to life in her clenched fists, before she regained control over herself and they died out. Like fireflies in the dark. But her eyes didn't leave his, sea-green like the ice of her words and the fire born of her will.  
"I lost a man I loved once. I promise you, I will see Corypheus burn for what he did to the one I love now."  


Samson was speechless.  
There was something in her that he'd seen only once before - when he lay broken before her at the temple of Mythal, with the bladed end of her staff pressed into his chest. The cold determination which burned in her eyes like vengeance then, burned in them now. Only, now _he_ was what she fought for, _he_ was what she was protecting. He didn't quite know what to do with that, with the idea that she could truly care. It seemed almost absurd, for her to care for him, a husk of a templar, eaten slowly but surely alive by corruption, and with so much blood on his hands that he deserved all of that. Since he first became aware of what he felt, he took the fact that those feelings were one-sided in stride - they had to be.  


The look in her eyes _couldn't_ have been for him. And yet, it was.  


"Amelia. I-"  
She raised a hand towards him again - the fire of her anger had died out - but a different kind of magic radiated from her skin in its place. It wasn't fire and yet it wasn't entirely unlike it, and to him it felt familiar like breathing, like his own heartbeat, it brought him certainty like the hilt of a sword in his hand would; knowing he had a fighting chance. Knowing that he wasn't alone. It was _her,_ the magic that was part of her as much as her very heart was; she seemed almost unaware of it wreathing her fingers as she reached out to touch his face. Without hesitation, without fear, he leaned into her touch, her fingers feather-light against his cheek.  
Instinctively, he placed his hand over hers, lightly enough so she could pull away - she didn't. Instead, she watched him with a look in her eyes before which he felt completely bare; the searing heat of affection he was certain he didn't deserve, yet right then, somehow, he believed it. She was focused on him alone and at that moment, all the world could just as well have vanished. Before her gaze he felt as if everything he ever was had been stripped part by part, laid out neatly for her to judge... and she, instead, chose not to. She simply watched him, with the emotion in her eyes which even he, who had seen so little of it, could not mistake for anything else.  
"I love you, Raleigh Samson. It is your name that has been my anchor and my foundation for too long now, and you leave me no choice but to admit that." She smiled ruefully. "You. You are my reason. I carry your name in my heart in every battle rather than the Chant of Light, rather than all the prayers. If what you say is true... if you are willing... I am done giving of myself to them, giving the things they never should demand. I do not know what battle will be my last. If it is only until dawning, I would take that. And if it is for the rest of my days... for whatever time I have, I would have you, and no other."  


With her hand against his cheek, her magic seeping through his skin and mending the things he wasn't aware needed mending, he leaned forward and kissed her, simple and almost chaste, like a shared secret, like a promise at long last fulfilled.  


But neither Amelia Trevelyan nor Raleigh Samson believed promises anymore; they chose rather to believe in what they had before them, in things they could touch, things they could feel; like the warmth of her hand on his skin, like the lingering taste of elfroot, like the chill of the night wind that made them press closer together, seeking comfort. Together, against the cold of the night. Together, against the dark.  
Together, against the world, if need be.  
At that moment, Samson would not have hesitated a second, had she asked it of him.  
And the world would do well to surrender.  



	26. Trials

They walked back to camp hand in hand - before the voices of the scouts drew too near, and she let her fingers slip from his, with an apologetic look.  
He understood, of course he did; there were some lines she could not cross, not this close to the final battle with Corypheus - and openly admitting that a red templar general was her lover was one of those things.  
Every soul that left her fold was one less sword, one less healer, one pair of hands less for the Inquisition, and it chipped away at their victory. For this, she would lose thousands.  
He understood, so why then did his fingers close around hers like a vice before he willed himself to let go?  
  
The great cream-colored stallion, who was Samson's constant companion on his journey, walked past them, finding his own way, pausing only to nip at Samson's shoulder.  
Seeing that, Amelia laughed.  
" _Madeleine_ ? You must have had a death wish."  
"I...didn't really stop to choose."  
_He was the only one not afraid of me._  
He looked at Amelia, frowning in cofusion. "Madeleine?"  
She shook her head, smiling at Samson's expression.  
"He's an absolute terror. I think he was a joke. Dorian still won't admit it." His confusion still evident, she clarified, resting her hand on his arm briefly.  
"He was a gift from a friend in Tevinter. Descended from some... very fancy bloodline. Only, I don't think he was ever meant to be ridden. Skyhold stablehands will tell you his favorite food is fingers. Optionally, souls. Once his overly friendly nature was obvious, I named him after a cookie." She laughed. "It's entirely ridiculous, I know." The unspoken part of her sentence was _'but things like that is what keeps you going.'_ Normal, everyday, ridiculous things. He seemed to have understood, and realized that it was something he couldn't give her. He was, and always would be, _general_ Raleigh Samson, to everyone who knew his face. It would haunt his every step as certainly as his shadow - there were things you couldn't outrun. Her smile faltered briefly. It was entirely ridiculous, too, that she walked side by side with the former general of her enemy, discussing trivial things like jokes, and the name of her horse. But she clutched that particular bit of ridiculousness, the inexplicable glimmer of normalcy, close to her chest, not willing to let go. They could be discussing battle, the past, or the aching promise of the future that was more than half a lie. But she stubbornly refused. A smile touched her lips again as she looked into Samson's eyes.  
"One time in the Hissing Wastes, I spent nearly half an hour chasing him in circles. He was always careful to be just out of reach, and yet to never go so far that I give up." She paused, looking thoughtful, then smiled impishly. "He's still my favorite, though." With mirth dancing in her eyes, she added: "It seems he likes you."  
Samson hadn't heard a word of those stories - it wasn't as if the servants stopped to wish a good morning to Corypheus' disgraced general.  
Once more, he felt like he was intruding, attempting to be a part of a world he could never be part of.  
Who he was, what he'd done - it would never disappear, never go away. Those people would never look at him with anything but fear in their eyes.  
_But she did._  
And he would take those moments, greedily, and as many as he could.  
Her hand was gone from his arm, and the ghost of her touch still lingered there, like the memory of fire.  
Suddenly lost, he crossed his arms over his chest as they entered the camp.  
  
  
It took the soldiers a while before they realized who it was following their Inquisitor so faithfully.  
Then, he trailed behind Amelia, meeting head-on their looks of blind hatred.  
Unlike the refugees, these men and women knew his face. They were scouts and soldiers, and they've fought his templars; they knew exactly who _general Raleigh Samson_ was.  
_Had been._  
No more. Never again.  
He trailed behind Amelia, countering every withering look with an unmoved expression of stone-cold disinterest.  
Inside him, a storm was raging.  
Every year he'd spent making himself numb, in the service of the Chantry, in the service of Corypheus; every single thing he'd done convincing himself that he was doing it for some _greater good_ \- it all came crashing down, in their watchful eyes, in the firelight which felt like it outlined his every scar for all the world to see, in the simple _here_ and _now_.  
Being there felt like choosing a side more than serving Corypheus ever did. 

_Damned coward. Look them in the eye._  
  
And he did, clenching his teeth, following behind Amelia, caught in a peculiar, personal limbo between _judgement_ and _hope_.  
It burned like white-hot steel under a blacksmith's hammer, and Samson wondered - briefly, foolishly - what he would be forged into.  
He did not know how to be anything but a weapon, even when he thought he did; when he rebelled against the atrocities of the Chantry, he still let Corypheus wield everything he had and everything he was like a blade to drive into the heart of his enemies. Still, he was nothing but a tool. A means to an end.  
_'Certainty'._  
What a damned fool he'd been.  
And still he couldn't promise he was anything more even then, but at the very least he knew he'd found a worthier hand to wield him.  
Perhaps she would remake him.  
But he did not know how to hold anything but the hilt of a sword.  
She was perhaps the only exception.  


He could have followed almost blindly, if some part of him wasn't always tense and alert, always expecting attack; her magic was unmistakable, almost tangible, like the charge in the air before a summer storm.  
She lead him past the heart of the camp, to a secluded spot where the four command tents towered over the others.  
Her companions - the Tevinter mage, the Warden, and the boy - were gathered around a table, cast in the glow of lanterns and torches, strewn with maps, and all of them looked up at their approach.  
Samson suddenly understood how one of those bugs must have felt, in the collection of some noble, fastened to velvet with a pin to be appraised.  
It was the boy who broke the silence, pale eyes fixed on Samson's own.  
"Too bright," he said, his voice curiously level as if he was describing something mundane. "He is too bright now, too, and it's hurting; I can see only little but even that cannot heal." He tilted his head, studying Samson, but it was Amelia he spoke to. "It's not red, not anymore, it's the color of your eyes, and it no longer tastes like seawater, like the grey of the harbor and sharp like the shapes of the things he could not have. He doesn't want them, anymore." Pale eyes fixed on Amelia. "You were afraid he would. Like you did."  
Amelia's lips formed a thin line. "Cole."  
He fell silent. Dorian looked away, disapproval etched into his face.  
Like nothing had happened, Amelia approached the map-strewn table and leaned against it, studying the jagged lines of a mountainside. Everyone around her was silent. The wind caught and dimmed the flames of torches, deepening the shadows.  
Dorian spoke first.  
"Really? Are we not going to talk about..." he waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, the red templar general right behind you?"  
Amelia gave him an exasperated look, and then sighed in defeat, prepared to explain, but Dorian spoke up again before she had the chance to.  
"Leliana sent word," he admitted.  
So, they knew.  
Amelia closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the table, feeling simultaneously grateful and livid.  
She could feel their eyes on her.  
_If I can trust anyone, I can trust them._  
_A dozen people, if so many._  
_And all the others... they have been taking and taking. How much more until there is nothing left? Can I not have this **one** thing?_  
  
_They will either accept me, or they won't._  
  
At the same time rage welled up inside her, aimed at no one in particular. A kind of spite that bordered on self-destruction.  
_How much more have I left to give? Before there's nothing left of **me**? Perhaps I need something of my own, too._  
She took a deep breath, when instead she wanted to scream. When she opened her eyes, they were steel and ice.  
Dead silence.  
She looked up, fiercely meeting the eyes of her companions one by one.  
And opened her mouth to speak.  
Blackwall raised a hand, palm outwards - an offer of peace.  
"I'm the last man to judge who you choose to extend your mercy to."  
She nodded, accepting his words.  
"Dorian?"  
He made a face.  
"This will be a scandal. Josephine will..."  
She met his eyes, something unspoken passing between them.  
_How long do you think secrets stay secret in Skyhold?_  
None the less, there was steel in her words.  
"I'll deal with the consequences. After. We have a war to win."  
Then, her voice much softer:  
"Thank you."  


  
  


Samson felt somewhat awkward, like a piece of a puzzle that didn't belong, watching the practiced ease with which they discussed battle plans, pointing to different places on the map, debating where to position troops. Torchlight flickered in Amelia's eyes, gilded the clasps of her robe, making her look every bit the leader she was. Samson noticed the soft creases in the corners of her eyes, too; the exhaustion in the tense line of her shoulders, an invisible weight there which came with command, all too familiar to him. They were making plans for the final assault, he realized. None bothered to include him, but none bothered to keep anything from him, either. Her remaining advisors and companions in Skyhold were another matter, but the three gathered around the table accepted her word without question, accepting his presence with it. Samson recognized that kind of loyalty, the unwavering dedication, the same trust that his soldiers once had in him. It was a startling revelation, that they weren't so different; in that, at least. And it made the guilt and the regret he felt that much worse.  
To distract himself - and because there wasn't much else to do - he watched Amelia as she pointed to a mountain pass, and listened to Blackwall's suggestions on how and when to move the soldiers.  
Only, those plans would fail miserably with even a soul above a hundred. And they were already discussing the transportation of supplies.  
"They won't make it."  
Dead silence. All eyes turned to him.  
He felt as if he said something appalling. He cleared his throat.  
"Too cold. With a few dozen men you could move quickly enough. This many would lose weeks."  
Both Blackwall's and Amelia's eyes returned to the map.  
They were quiet for a moment longer. Then, slowly, Amelia moved the map marker south.  
Dorian, however, did not take his eyes off Samson.  


Well past midnight, with the heavy blanket of stars above them, they gathered around the fire for a long-overdue meal.  
Samson still lingered by Amelia, uncertain what he was allowed or not allowed to do, feeling as if it was merely a dream he could wake up from at any moment. He didn't, and instead he listened to Amelia and Dorian recounting a story from the Winter Palace, both glancing occasionally at the bowls containing their dinner - overseasoned vegetable stew - with an equal measure of reluctance and appreciation. He, himself, didn't have much of an appetite.  
_I'm as useless to her as I've ever been._  
A cold wind picked up, the forest around the camp restless. Cole was watching the clouds drift across the moon, perched upon a stack of crates bearing the Inquisition's seal. It was Blackwall who spoke up when there was a lull in the conversation, his words much rougher than theirs, immediately erasing both their smiles. Their joy fell apart like a poorly constructed facade.  
"So, are we just not going to talk about it?" he asked sharply.  
"Just sit around, pretending he didn't do what he did?"  
Samson looked up; but Blackwall wasn't looking at him.  
He caught Amelia's eyes, but she immediately looked away, her eyes tinged with something that was almost fear.  
But that couldn't have been right.  
"Are we just going to pretend that the templars who tried to kill you weren't Cullen's personal guard?"  



	27. Before Dawn's First Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter deals with very dark themes, mentions/references abuse and related trauma, as well as self-destructive thoughts/tendencies.

The entire retinue moved slowly, many of the soldiers who were diverted to the camp at Emerald Graves - since the Inquisitor was there and unfit to travel - now leaving it.  
From being the place of the Herald's trial and triumph, to which the troops and correspondence poured every day, the camp in the Emerald Graves would once more become a small, quiet foothold of the Inquisition.  
Samson stared straight ahead, gripping the reins of his warhorse tightly in hand.  
She was riding some distance ahead of him, engaged in an animated discussion with Blackwall. What about, Samson couldn't hear.  
_Why didn't you tell me?_  
That question burned in Samson's chest as brightly as the dawn did, drowning out the voices of the soldiers and the crunch of soil under the hooves of the horses, not letting him think about anything else.  
He winced as his warhorse stepping over uneven terrain sent a jolt of pain through the healed-over cut on his stomach, absent-mindedly pressing his fingers against it to alleviate the ache as his mind remained occupied by more important things.  
She hardly spoke to him the previous night, standing up and retreating to her tent when Blackwall demanded an answer.  
In the morning, Samson received supplies for the road from a scout who wouldn't so much as look him in the eye, receiving with them a dose of lyrium like all the Inquisition's templars.  
They weren't many, as they were "away on assignments," but those who were needed to deal with the Venatori were still at the camp.  
Samson stashed the vial at the bottom of the pack, trying very hard not to let his thoughts wander to it.  
It wasn't until nightfall that he caved in.  
  
  
After a day of riding, through which Amelia hadn't spoken a single word to him, he approached her as the caravan was making preparations to stop for the night. Her dark-scaled dracolisk watched him carefully, growing mildly restless at his approach, but doing little else.  
Samson had watched Amelia give orders and direct troops all her waking hours, with much more cold determination then he was used to seeing, and without so much as casting a glance his way.  
She didn't look at him even as he approached, continuing to unpack her saddlebags, back straight and lips pressed tightly together.  
The others around them were paying no attention, busy doing much the same.  
"So you're not talking to me again for a month or two, is that it?"  
He tried and failed to keep the bitterness from his voice, but the sting of fear underneath it was much too strong.  
_She regrets it,_ the voice of his doubts whispered, tireless.  
_She finally took a good look at you and she realized she can't stomach this._  
She gave no sign that she heard him except a dry swallow, untying a rolled-up blanket with more vigor than necessary.  
Samson felt like the most pathetic thing in the world.  
"Maker's bloody- will you look at me?!"  
She turned in place, meeting his eyes with a defiant expression. He closed his mouth, studying her face - there were no tears, but the look on her face told him she was at a point beyond them.  
It was like looking at still-smoldering ashes. At whatever was left after a forest fire. A grey, tired memory of flame.  
"Come with me."  
Her tone left no room for argument, and when she turned and walked into the trees that lined the road he followed without protest.  
As he was leaving, he felt a pair of eyes on his back - those of the Tevinter mage - but he couldn't find it in himself to care.  
  
  
They walked until they reached the roots of an old tree - by far the grandest around them. There, Amelia crumpled to the ground with her back against the rough bark, and closed her eyes.  
Samson carefully sat beside her, grimacing as the movement briefly reawakened the ache of his recently healed injury.  
It seemed like an eternity before she spoke.  
"Do you know why I cannot heal?"  
Whatever he was expecting, this wasn't it. He shook his head, but seeing that she didn't open her eyes, he spoke. "No."  
Silence stretched on a moment longer, but he didn't interrupt, waiting for her to speak. And she did, a torrent of words - like rising water, gathering behind the floodgates for far too long, and finally breaking through.  
"They intercepted a letter he sent. We were...we thought we were communicating with the elder of a Dalish clan. We were going to escape, they were going to accept us - even me, because I was with him - they would protect us when the templars came for us, because we would be part of the clan. And we were going to have our happily ever after." She laughed, harshly, without humor. "All that time, we were writing to the Knight-Commander. That night, when we ran, with all our hopes in a little bundle, a journal, a shawl, a loaf of bread and one vial of lyrium, not much more... an entire contingent of templars awaited us."  
She swallowed, struggling, but the truth - kept inside too long - was like the waters; similarly unmerciful, just as unstoppable. It demanded to be spoken, with no regard for the speaker. Kept inside any longer, it would have pulled her under, and Amelia kept talking just so she could breathe.  
"I was silenced. Restrained. They didn't even have to silence him. He tried casting, but a fist to the face was enough. They dragged him away, he got the brand.  
That..." she smiled. "...broke me." Her smile was humorless, more teeth than anything else.  
"Quite literally."  
She raised a hand, flames slowly springing to life around her fingers.  
"I couldn't control it. I couldn't summon any other magic. Ever since, I have been.... nothing but fire." She swallowed again, as if a particular bitterness lingered on her lips.  
"When it happened, and I came to, I burned down an entire wing of the library, and half of the apprentice quarters. Before they managed to get enough templars to silence my magic entirely. I was still a Trevelyan, so, while they maintained the silence, they emptied a disused storeroom of anything flammable and placed me there. I also wouldn't stop screaming.  
It's been..." She opened her eyes, and slowly turned her hand over, watching the flames dance. "I don't remember. Half a year, I think. After a month, I got a blanket."  
Samson spoke up for the first time, fighting to keep the rage from his voice, but he remembered a Circle - and he knew how things were done there too well for that.  
"Clothes?"  
She smiled sadly. "They're flammable."  
She met his eyes briefly, before her gaze returned to her hand, still wreathed in flame. The flames were translucent, gentle orange, dancing lazily an inch above her skin.  
"It was better, later. Eventually, they let me out. After, I could even summon other types of magic, however weak. Lightning. Sometimes a barrier. It's become better since Viuus started teaching me. I can handle spirits fairly well.  
But all I've ever been since that night was flames."  
She smiled again, her smile accepting, and tinged with sadness.  
"It's not _summoning fire_ so much as _keeping it contained at all the other times._ "  
She looked up, and finally met his eyes, the reflection of the flames dancing in her own.  
"The reason that arrow got through, is because they Silenced us. I froze up. I could see it all, all over again. Him, screaming. And I couldn't save him. I was there once more, beating on the walls until my hands bled."  
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away, infinite sadness plain on her face, absolutely raw and unguarded. The flames were still there, wreathing her hand, forgotten. That fire was a part of her, always present, as easy and natural to draw upon as drawing breath.  
"And because of _that_ , because of what happened _then_... when they needed me, I couldn't- I couldn't do anything, I couldn't even move. What if they'd hit Dorian? Or Cole? What if next time, it's you? What if **_I_** -" Her voice broke, not allowing the words to cross her lips. They remained hanging in the air between them, unspoken; _'-lose control?'_ When she spoke up again, it was barely above a whisper.  
"Maybe they are right. Maybe mages are..." The thoughts she did her best to keep hidden resurfaced, and bled through like a reopened wound. The things that were always just underneath her smile, doubts ravenous and waiting to devour her. _It's my fault. It was always my fault. They are right._ "I haven't been well, Raleigh."  
  
  
The names for what they'd done to her swirled in his head - templar training made it seem much less horrifying than it was. _Containment. Isolation. Doing the Maker's work._ They called it 'protecting the innocent.' But what about the innocents like her, like those of her Circle, like the hundreds in Kirkwall? He wanted to hold her so badly it was almost an ache in his chest. He wanted to protect her, he wanted desperately to erase what had been done - but he couldn't. No one could. He knew that perhaps better than anyone else.  
It was as real and etched into her as a scar, and none of it was her fault. He wanted to offer comfort, but didn't know how to. Nothing could _fix_ it. No platitude would make it hurt any less.  
Instead, he looked away, and spoke quietly, a tentative offer of truth in their solitude. An exchange.  
"When I was in Kirkwall - there were things I - " He swallowed, starting anew.  
"At first, I was glad to be out of the Gallows. Lyrium be damned. The things you see there... what Meredith did - not seeing that was worth an aching stomach. It was worth getting shoved around and sleeping in the gutter. It was worth whatever damn thing I had to do. But after a while I realized - that I wasn't seeing it didn't mean it wasn't happening. Airen tried to help them. The mages. Once they'd be done with them." He remembered the blonde-haired youth, kneeling by his side at a tower in Skyhold, pressing his hands to the sides of his wound as he was bleeding out. "The boy who healed me. He's a blood mage. Because what Meredith did, what they did, healing couldn't fix. Nothing could, sometimes. But he tried, anyway."  
He swallowed heavily, his eyes avoiding hers. Perhaps he didn't want her to see. Or perhaps it was him not wanting to see; whatever truth was surely plain on her face, the judgement he was certain had to be there. Instead, he just continued, _needing_ more than _wanting_ to speak.  
"Spend enough time on the streets of Kirkwall, and that harbor starts to look awfully inviting-"  
Cole's words from the day before invaded his mind unwanted. _'It no longer tastes like seawater, like the grey of the harbor and sharp like the shapes of the things he could not have.'_  
He fell silent for a moment before he continued. "Sometimes, when what the red did to me cleared, and I looked around, when I looked at what I'd done, at Sahrnia-"  
He breathed in, forcing the truth out in the next breath, simple and raw.  
"-I wished I did."  
_'He doesn't want them, anymore.'_  
He looked up at her. For a while, there was silence. There were so many things he could have said.  
_'It's not your fault. It never was. It never will be. What the Chantry preaches - it gets inside you, like poison. It makes you want your chains.'_  
He said none of those things. Instead, he offered that truth, something from the deepest part of him, something he'd said out loud for the first time. He covered her hand with his, unsure he even knew how to be gentle anymore.  
"All of me. I meant it."  
_Even that. Even the truth._  
She squeezed his hand in return, so many things in that simple gesture that words could not convey.  
And slowly, she smiled at him, a one-sided smile of defiance.  
_Pride. That's what he was seeing. Pride._  
Pride was the last thing on his mind, right then.  
  
They were both of them broken. There was nothing poetic about it. Nothing beautiful. Shards of something the Chantry shattered and discarded, shards still sharp enough to draw blood.  
Ashes filled with embers; but the ashes in the ruin of their bones were a wildfire waking.  
There was nothing beautiful about them.  
And at the same time, watching the moonlight which was falling through the leaves illuminate her face as the flames in her hand died out, Samson thought there was nothing more beautiful in the world.  
Leaning forward, he kissed her, hunger and reverence, gentleness which left bruises, and the kind of devotion which almost drew blood.  
There was nothing beautiful about it. And there wasn't a thing in the world which he held more sacred.  
Sacrifices that fell away to leave a possessiveness behind, a need that would make saints and martyrs avert their eyes. A profane truth written in longing and in healed over scars:  
_Mine, and mine alone._  


  
_They cannot touch you._  



	28. Reunions

The gates of Skyhold stood open to welcome them home.  
_Home._  
How curious a word to think of it. But it was true, he thought, almost allowing himself to smile.  
_Home_ was with her.  
He would follow; he wasn't entirely sure when it was that he'd made that decision. Somewhere between the blade of her staff digging into his ribs at the temple of Mythal, and holding her against him as her fire bled through into his own skin. Somewhere between the kisses and the teeth marks, between kindness and ruin. He would follow and he would be whatever she demanded of him, her blade, her general, her monster - as long as it is _hers_ \- precisely because she never asked it of him to be any of these things. With her, Samson discovered that there was a difference between _belonging to_ and _belonging with_. He would stay forever because there was nothing to bind him.  
With him, 'forever' could be months. It could be weeks, if weeks were all he had. The need for lyrium, always there and hurting and curled in his chest like a sleeping beast - reminded him of it. The blue did little to fulfill it, and in the end it would devour him, turn him into something he wanted far, far away from her.  
He wanted to be there, by her side, for as long as he drew breath; and he realized - the pain of understanding blooming in his chest - that he took that from himself. The first time a vial of red touched his lips, he took from himself that which he never dreamed of having.  
He couldn't have known. Yet, it did not make him hate himself any less.  
He didn't want her anywhere near the thing he knew he'd become, and even more than that - he didn't want her to see.  
He didn't want her to be there when the last of his humanity left his eyes, when his bones break and twist to jut out of his skin, glittering red.  
_Don't think about it. Now - now is all we have._  


Amelia's remaining advisors, as well as a good number of her companions, awaited them at the bottom of the stairs.  
She dismounted, handing the reins over to the soldier at her side, waiting there to lead the animals to the stables. Her followers did the same - Samson relinquishing the reins of his warhorse to a frightened looking stablehand - and the company moved to greet those waiting for them.  
"Told you that you should have brought me along, boss." The Iron Bull's voice was cheerful, but his eyes searched Amelia's face, no doubt assessing the state she was in and the possible damage done to her. "To what? Catch arrows? That would've worked." Sera joked, nudging him with her elbow. Amelia smiled a sincere, if a bit tired, smile at their exchange. Josephine stood at the head of the little group. Her expression was deadly serious, worry bleeding through, her usual veneer of polite cheerfulness entirely absent. Before either could speak, Sera's eyes found Samson, and all humor drained from them, replaced by a fierce expression of hatred. "What's he doing here?!" She demanded. "After what he's done to those people, he should've-"  
"Not the time." Varric interrupted her, and she spat a biting remark, but fell silent, not taking her eyes off Samson. Varric's frown, thankfully, spoke of concern and not animosity, and he merely spared Samson a glance before his eyes returned to the Inquisitor.  
"Good to see you in one piece." The dwarf looked genuinely relieved. "Well, mostly. We've got news." He looked to Leliana. "Sister?"  
The Spymaster stepped forward, staying silent for a while as she studied Amelia's face with concern obvious in the crease of her brow and the slightly downturned corners of her lips. Her unreadable eyes briefly settled on Samson, before returning to the Inquisitor.  
"Yes," she finally spoke. "We received news from one of our camps in the Graves, about a week ago. There has been dissent in the ranks of our templars." The company fell silent, tension creeping in at Leliana's words. She was talking about what none would yet address openly - the attempt on Amelia's life, and whose name was attached to it.  
"It is of utmost importance that the Inquisitor is made aware of this." She produced a letter from her coat, straightening the parchment with gloved fingers.  
"A high-ranking officer left her place, against her commander's orders, and took a number of soldiers with her, intending to make an attempt on the Inquisitor's life...following what was described as misguided-"  
"Sister Nightingale! A rider!"  
Leliana turned towards the guard at the gates who addressed her, the mask that was the Spymaster slipping seamlessly into place.  
"A single rider?"  
Knowing full well that the guards would not disturb the Spymaster over just any rider, dozens of which arrived to Skyhold each day - messengers, traders, potential recruits - the rest of the company fell silent.  
"He - bears the Inquisition's...it's Commander Rutherford."  
The discomfort in the guard's tone betrayed the fact that he was either a member Leliana's closest circle, or that rumors traveled fast and uncomfortably far through the Inquisition's ranks.  
It did not escape Amelia's attention that several of the guards on the parapets - all of them Leliana's scouts - took up their bows and readied arrows.  
Not a single person spoke as the sound of a horse's hooves in gallop drew nearer, the rider obviously not sparing his mount.  
After a wordless nod from Leliana, the gate guards stepped out of the way, her scouts on the parapets drawing their bows, arrowheads gleaming and ready.  


He rode in through the gates, never slowing until he was halfway across the courtyard, the hooves of his warhorse tearing up the sparse grass and soil. Sweat beaded on his brow, blonde hair tousled from the wind, the shadows under his eyes dark against he unhealthy pallor of his face. Only his eyes were sharp and focused as he dismounted, handing the reins to a soldier without so much as looking at him. He headed straight for the gathered group, his eyes on Amelia and no one else.  
The entire company was silent, all eyes on him. Blackwall's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and Varric reached for his crossbow, though none did more than that.

From the moment he dismounted, Cullen's gaze did not stray from Amelia's face, heedless of anyone else at her side. His expression was one of sincere pain - so open that she nearly winced when he strode up to her.  
"Amelia, I'm so s-"  
Samson's fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling on the half-finished cobblestones of the courtyard, before anyone had the chance to react.  
Cullen wiped blood from a split lip, casting only a brief glance at Samson as if the former general was no more than a nuisance, before his eyes returned to Amelia, earnest.  
"I had no idea-"  
This time it was kick to the ribs, and that did get through to the Commander, who gathered himself and rose to his feet, then, snarling, reached for his blade.  
Cullen's sword was halfway drawn when the tip of Samson's blade came to rest under his chin.  
The two former templars glared at each other with open hatred.  
When Samson spoke, his words were for Amelia.  
"Say the word," he spat through clenched teeth, the tip of his blade pressing harder into the Commander's throat. Beads of blood blossomed there.  
_I should. For Kirkwall. For them all. For every time you looked away._  
_For Maddox. ___  
It took everything Samson had in him to stay his hand.  
"Stay out of this, filth." Cullen's words were trembling with poorly suppressed anger. "This is between me and my-" he faltered. "My..."  
_How dare he?_

____

Amelia opened her mouth to speak, but it was _Josephine_ who stepped forward, her eyes blazing with anger.  
"If you are all quite _finished_ ," - each of her words was carefully chosen and dripping with cold anger that made everyone gathered shrink - "with this _display._ "  
Cullen had the decency to look ashamed. Samson never looked away from the commander, his eyes filled with hatred, but he, too, held his tongue, lowering his blade after a moment of hesitation.  
Josephine narrowed her eyes.  
"You were saying, _Ser_ Rutherford?"  
The use of the templar title did not escape Amelia, and she felt a rush of fondness for Josephine.  
Cullen hesitated a moment, before sheathing his sword and glancing at Amelia.  
"I swear, I had _no_ idea. I was - angry. Disappointed. I - talked. I didn't think any of them would- They'd never-"  
He sighed in defeat, rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding Amelia's eyes.  
"I never dreamed my own lieutenant would take my words to heart and try to harm you. I never meant for any of this to happen. You have to believe me. Please."  
He looked into her eyes and it was she who looked away, unprepared to deal with the sincerity in his own. When she spoke, her tone was clipped and cold.  
"I-" she stopped herself, obviously thinking better than whatever she meant to say, her eyes finally settling on Cullen. "And yet it happened."  
Cullen took what little ground she offered, taking the chance to speak up again.  
"I've been tracking her ever since. I swear to you, I'll- I'll see justice done. I-"  
He frowned then, realizing what he was saying. His words lost their eagerness, taking on a more serious, solemn tone.  
"I'll take responsibility. I never thought my own-" A sigh escaped his lips. "I'll face whatever punishment the Inquisition sees fit to-"  
"Absolutely not."  
All eyes turned to Josephine, who had interjected, her eyes hard and resolute.  
"This entire business has already weakened the Inquisition _greatly_ in the eyes of our allies. The same allies upon whom the Inquisition relies for its forces and supplies."  
Her lips were pressed together in displeasure. No one objected.  
"Now, if everyone is quite finished, after you have settled I will see you in the war room, where we shall discuss this matter _at length_ , and hopefully reach some agreement on how this damage may be minimised."  
With that, she turned around, and with a curt "Your Worship," and a nod to the others, ascended the stairs to Skyhold.  
Cullen was the next to leave, avoiding Amelia's eyes and acting as if Samson did not exist, disappearing in the direction of his long-abandoned tower.  


Samson, however, had no intention of withdrawing. He stood by Amelia's side unmoving, squaring his shoulders as if challenging anyone to call into question his right to be there. No one did.  
The rest cleared one by one, the last being Sera and the Iron Bull who, in passing, extended a joking offer of: "You need some heads knocked, boss, you know where to find me." Amelia gave him a grateful smile, fully convinced that he would be prepared to actually uphold his end of the bargain should she ask. He left, Sera trailing behind him, the both of them most likely heading to the tavern to wash the entire uncomfortable reunion away.  
Amelia was quiet. Samson could not read her expression, or the way her gaze lingered on Cullen's tower.

He felt a stab of something akin to doubt.  



	29. Interlude

Once alone, Samson clenched his teeth, annoyed at the ever-increasing, distracting ache his latest injury had left him with. He tugged his tunic over his head, and approached the mirror over the washing basin.  
Amelia was no doubt meeting her advisors, or otherwise dealing with the demands that accumulated in her absence, which left him the time to deal with the poorly-healed result of his latest battle that was quickly becoming a problem impossible to ignore. Looking away from the reflection of his face, he started to unwind the bandages.  


 

 

Amelia looked up at Cullen, who seemed to be immensely interested in the map spread across his desk. Deafening silence stretched on between them, until finally, he spoke.  
"I- I _am_ so sorry, Amelia. I cannot say how much." He paused briefly. When he spoke up again, his words were softer.  
"I've been thinking. A lot, actually, and..."  
He straightened, leaving his place at the desk, and approached her, taking both her hands in his. Amelia's shoulders immediately tensed, which he didn't notice.  
"I acted out of line. Even...even before. There is nothing I can say for myself. But..." His eyes found hers, capturing her gaze with an intensity impossible to deny. She found herself unable to look away. "I...care for you. And you... you cared for me. Once."  
She was caught under his gaze, feeling pinned not unlike a prized butterfly in the collection of some noble.  
"Perhaps you can...perhaps you could forgive me. Perhaps we could start over. Have a happy ending. For once."  
One of his hands released hers, coming up to brush away the stray strands of hair out of her face, lingering there.  
"This dance Josephine is planning... to show our allies that nothing came between us, that we still stand strong against Corypheus, together... that does not have to be pretending."  
He held her gaze with hopeful, vulnerable sincerity.  
She swallowed.  


Finally tearing her eyes away from his, she took a step back, releasing his hand.  
"That was always the problem, Cullen," she said, anger extinguished, leaving bitterness behind, tinged with something that was almost regret.  
"You always assumed that what I wanted most was whatever it was you wanted. And I would stay silent."  
She paused, casting a glance at him that was embers of anger and ashes of love.  
"You always believed that you knew what was best. That the Chantry was infallible. And you were so magnanimously ready to forgive me the sin of my birth." Her voice was almost laughter, disbelief and bitterness disguised as humor when there was nothing to laugh about.  
But every trace of it was gone when she spoke next, meeting Cullen's eyes with unshaken conviction, something cold and unforgiving in her own.  
"I'm sorry things ended as they did, Cullen, I really am. But there is a truth I know you will not accept unless you hear it from my lips, so you will - everything that is mine to give belongs to Raleigh Samson."  
He did not move, his eyes not straying from hers and burning with something she couldn't place, nor particularly cared to.  
"The man who did care. For us. For the mages. Because that is what I am, Cullen. And there, at the dance...when I hold your hand and smile for the crowd, don't forget that. And don't forget there is fire under my skin for which I will no longer ask your forgiveness."  
She turned around and left, not looking back.  
Halfway down the stairs, she heard the sound of something breaking. She did not return to see what it was.  
At that moment, she wondered if there was anything left in her of any worth whatsoever.  
But that was the difference between belonging _to_ and belonging _with_.  
And she was done with _belonging to_.  
With the final battle against her enemy swiftly approaching, with her death at the very least possible, if not certain...it was surprisingly easy.  
It was a curious thing, not to feel shame, or regret.  


 

 

He removed the bloodied bandages, leaving them in a heap on the side. _Fresh_ blood, which wasn't a good sign after so long, but wasn't surprising. The pallor and the bruising was nothing new, and neither were the too-visible veins. The scar - no, cut - hadn't healed half as well as he expected, but the tender, irritated skin and the swollen tissue was nothing he hadn't seen before. However, what made his mouth run dry and his throat constrict - as what he was seeing sank in - were the shards of red lyrium. Embedded in his flesh, growing out of it, glittering faintly in the firelight. Mocking everything he thought he had.  
His reckoning was at hand.  



	30. Absolution

Samson crossed the sparsely-furnished room for what felt like the hundredth time, the feeling of nausea and panic heavy in his stomach. He glanced briefly at the empty vials on the table, drops of blue clinging to the glass, and guilt joined the dread coiling in his chest.  
  
He ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly acutely aware of how it was thinning, and of all the other deceptively unnoticeable signs that there was _something_ eating him alive and slowly twisting him into a monster.  
  
_You've always been a monster._  
  
He sighed, not knowing how to battle the waves of dread, fear and hopelessness that washed over him. All the things he used to do in Kirkwall Circle - what seemed a lifetime away - were impossible. He couldn't train; there were preparations for a dance underway in Skyhold, a final show for the nobility whose money paid for the swords which would be drawn against Corypheus.  
And he certainly wouldn't pray.  
  
He couldn't talk to Amelia either. What was so easy to forget on the road - that she was the Inquisitor, the Herald - now returned full force to remind him that he was nothing. She had countless duties she had to attend to, she had so many petitioning for her favor, and what right did he have to demand her time?  
Besides, it wasn't as if his death was unexpected. He knew as well as she that it was coming, and something as minor as himself couldn't get in the way of her war against Corypheus.  
  
Defeating the magister was something greater than both Samson and Amelia, and both of them knew it - so why was it that he felt so bitter, so cheated out of things that he never deserved in the first place?  
  
The lyrium helped - a little - but he didn't think himself so unprepared for his death.  
  
When was it that some treacherous part of him refused to make peace with it, and decided to hold onto life so desperately?  
It was demeaning. It angered him.  
It made him want to cry like he hadn't since he was a recruit, the night after he first witnessed a Harrowing.  


  


A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts, before it swung open to let in the Arcanist flanked by two impassive guards.  
  
"A-ha. Here you are. Thought she could snatch my experiment away, did she?" She smiled, barely noticing how her attempt at humor fell flat. She gestured for him to follow.  
  
"Well, come on. No time to waste."  


  


  


"The soldiers you sent to retrieve the mage and the templar have returned, Your Worship. Their charges are well. They're being assigned a place to sleep as we speak."  
  
Amelia didn't look up from the pile of letters on her desk, idly playing with the quill in her hand while her eyes skimmed the elegant, neat lines in expensive ink. "Uh-huh. Great. Make sure they're not separated."  
  
Another guard, lingering behind until then, approached.  
  
"The supplies from the Hissing Wastes have been dispatched, Your Worship. The Ambassador says we've pulled everything we can from the forward camps. She has written to her contacts in Val Royeaux."  
  
The guard wrung her hands, looking anxious, but Amelia still didn't look up, hastily signing a letter. "Great. Fine. Tell Josephine I said thanks."  
  
With a wordless nod the guard left, her companion following, apparently having decided that the Inquisitor was too busy right then to address whatever concerns she had.  
  
Amelia frowned at the tiny droplets of ink staining the front of her otherwise immaculate uniform, before reading through another letter and folding it to discard it onto one of the piles.  
  
Out of habit, the end of her quill found its way to her lips.  
  
"You're eating feathers."  
  
Frowning, she looked up, not having heard anyone approach.  
  
The dwarven woman standing before her smiled somewhat awkwardly.  
"Dagna! Oh. Hi. Hello."  
  
Immediately, she noticed the Arcanist's smile widen, the glint in her eyes speaking of a discovery.  
  
"Herald...we need to talk."  


  


The stairwell down to the Undercroft was dark, and colder than Amelia remembered.  
She shivered as the cold wind reached her skin, the thin fabric of her uniform amounting to nothing.  
She stepped into the Undercroft, noting the organized chaos that littered every available surface - tools, runes, half-assembled fine contraptions she could not name, books with heavy, leather covers bearing script even she - with her Circle education and a lifetime of study - did not recognize.  
For a moment, she was once again humbled by the immense intelligence of her Arcanist, as Dagna led her down the stairs and into her workshop.  
Then, all other thoughts fled Amelia as her eyes fell on Samson, sitting on one of the low benches, shirtless and pressing a swath of bloody fabric against his stomach.  
Amelia kept silent even though all in her wanted to scream, but she could not keep the fear from her eyes, and her Arcanist cast her a knowing look.  
  
"I've made a significant breakthrough, Your Worship. I think you will be pleased."  
  
Samson caught Amelia's eyes, a lot passing between them unspoken. A barely visible shadow of a smile touched his lips when he saw the worry and fear bleeding through Amelia's carefully constructed veneer of calm.  
  
"Dagna." Amelia cleared her throat, trying and failing to keep her voice from trembling. "Care to explain?"  
  
The Arcanist smiled, as if that was all she was waiting for.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
Her behavior obviously switching to the familiar working pattern, she yanked the fabric out of Samson's grasp and away, revealing what was underneath it.  
  
Amelia felt as if the ground was snatched from under her feet, a yawning abyss of sheer terror opening underneath her ribs at the sight.  
  
Glittering shards of red lyrium protruded from the bruised and bleeding flesh of an unhealed wound.  
  
She pressed a hand to her lips, reverting to the old habit without thinking, like so many times in the Circle when it was imperative that she didn't scream.  
  
Samson watched her carefully, but her eyes did not stray from the blood and the crystal, both a vivid red against bloodless skin.  
  
She barely noticed when Dagna grabbed a pair of reinforced gloves from the table, the kind used in working with lyrium, and something Samson was quite sure were tongs used in forging, not medicine.  
  
Nevertheless, he offered no resistance when she closed the tool around the largest shard, holding the swath of cloth underneath it, and pulled.  
  
Samson's face darkened with pain, blood pooling freely onto the cloth as the shard dislodged.  
  
Dagna looked up at Amelia with the widest smile on her face.  
"See?"  
  
Amelia's eyes, swimming with tears she wasn't able to hold back nor conceal, fixed on her, void of understanding.  
  
Samson's eyes were on Amelia, though focused less on the tears and more on the way the air rippled around her body, waves of heat rolling off her skin strong enough for him to feel them even several feet away. They were erratic, pulsing with her heartbeat; he could almost feel the flame coiling under her skin, and for the first time, he understood.  
  
"Amelia," he addressed her, "listen."  
  
Her eyes snapped back to him at the sound of his voice, before returning to Dagna as the meaning of his words sank in.  
  
The Arcanist's grin widened.  
  
"You see, usually...they go down to the bone. Through muscle. They grow out of them, you can _break_ them off but you can't do _that_. They're not removable."  
She paused.  
"He'll probably never be _fully_ free of it but..."  
  
She carefully held the piece of red lyrium, grinning up at the Inquisitor, the muted red glow making her smile look slightly disturbing.  
  
"This isn't corruption. This is rejection."  
  



	31. Overture

It was already evening when the surgeon finished, allowing Samson to catch his breath, gritting his teeth in pain and pressing a hand to his tightly bandaged stomach.  
Dagna looked up from the grisly collection of shards, before rolling them carefully in reinforced leather with gloved hands, and making a note in her work journal.  
She nodded to a servant who descended the stairs moments after, and the elf handed the set of vials in her hands to Samson, while eyeing the former general with no small amount of suspicion and fear.  
As soon as he took them, the elven woman practically ran.  
Dagna watched Samson wordlessly as he inspected the vials, then, recognizing the herbal mixture, uncorked one and downed its contents in one gulp.  
It had to have hurt more than he let on.  
"That should help," she noted, watching him uncork yet another to repeat the process.  
"They are from Airen. Apparently the Inquisitor recruited another healer. To be honest, the boy gives me the creeps, but you can't deny he's skilled. Saved a templar yesterday who was skewered through. Literally. The Venatori are certainly imaginative. Our healers gave him three hours...a day ago."  
Samson looked at her sideways, as she finished putting away her tools.  
Once done, she took off her gloves and approached him.  
"Alright. Let's see if the healing potions now work properly."  
He let her unwind the bandages without protest, then looked down to inspect the state he was in.  
His skin was discolored and bruised, but otherwise healed. After a moment, the Arcanist nodded.  
"Alright, you can get dressed."  
Samson grabbed the loose tunic from the nearby bench, putting it on, when the Arcanist cleared her throat. He paused.  
"Uh...the dance is tomorrow, I know. But even she has to take a break. And...I think she'll be happy to see you. And get the news."  
The dwarf met his eyes.  
"...go see her."  
The silence stretched on for a moment, Samson holding her gaze, before nodding in wordless thanks.  
Watching him climb up the steps out of the Undercroft, the Arcanist smiled.  


  
  
  


Amelia's hand froze with the ornate, silver hairbrush halfway through her hair, the soft melody she had been absent-mindedly humming dying on her lips when a knock at her door interrupted her.  
It was a melody she wasn't sure when she picked up, finding its was to her lips too often, and always when she wasn't paying attention.  
She stood up and walked to the door, opening them only to see the last person she would expect standing there.  


Samson was standing in her doorway, looking at her with a curious expression, somewhere between joy and uncertainty.  
He cleared his throat.  
"That's a nice song. I don't think I know it."  


She looked away, color rising to her cheeks as she remembered the words that went with the melody, and made a swift decision to have a talk with Maryden about her impossibly catchy songs. But he was right, it _was_ an nice song. About a knight.  
"Yes, uh. You probably don't."  
She stepped aside to allow him to enter, and he did just that, looking around her quarters with interest, before his eyes settled on her again.  
"I come with a message, actually. From your Arcanist. It's how the guards let me through." His lips curled upwards in a half-smile. "The message is: 'I was right.' She also said I'm going to be fine. 'Probably. For now.' And I'm quoting."  
That earned a laugh from Amelia, relief plain on her face when she looked up at him again. For a moment, he fell silent, looking away before his eyes returned to hers.  
"She said I should see you...before everything."  
When their eyes met, laughter died on her lips and words on his.  
Holding his gaze, Amelia closed the door.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early warning regarding the next chapter, to all readers who wish to skip adult content.


	32. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains adult content, as well as a mention of (past) abuse. It may be skipped without missing relevant plot points.

He kissed her; all his need, all his despair spilled over into that one kiss. Words forgotten, he held her against him instead - tightly, like a lifeline, one hand finding the curve of her hip and the other cupping her face. She responded in kind, drinking in all his desire and matching his flame with her own, until both of them were breathless and aching. Their eyes closed, he touched his forehead to hers, catching his breath and simply letting her presence anchor him. The way he ached for her, he felt no need to hide that; he was certain she shared it, in the way she pressed her body against his, in the way her hands found their way into his hair. But the shadows of his past were relentless, and cared nothing for love...but she would understand. He was certain she would.  
"Amelia," he whispered, his voice hoarse as if he had to remember how to talk first.  
She stilled, still holding him, her breath warm against his lips.  
"Yes?" she whispered, unmoving, with her hands in his hair and his forehead still pressed against her own.  
He swallowed.  
"There were... things... in the Circle. Things I've seen happen and..."  
He paused, finding the words. She patiently waited for him to speak.  
"I need to hear that you want this. That I'm not...I'd never..."  
He swallowed again.  
"I need to know this, every step of the way. I need to be sure that you want this. That you want me."  
She was briefly silent, but he felt her hold on him tighten a fraction.  
"Oh, Raleigh. I do."  
She finished the sentence with a kiss carefully placed on his lips, more gentle than any before.  
"I do want you, so much."  
Another kiss. This time, he kissed back, before she pulled away again. He opened his eyes to look at her, seeing the unspoken question written plainly on her face.  
He nodded, the anxious tension leaving his muscles, and kissed her again, allowing himself to let go, prepared to surrender to her - as he always did - in perfect faith.  
It was the last of her kisses that was as gentle.  


Everything she could not say, she etched into his lips in kisses, their breaths as one, trembling hands on bare skin.  
_Maker, I'm so afraid. I don't want to lose you. And I love you enough to choose you over everything else. Anything._  
It was nothing selfless and nothing heroic, and it was true. It was only too evident in the way she touched him, the fear and the yearning brought together so closely, until one was indistinguishable from the other, branded into his skin with kisses.  
She kissed him hungrily, deeply, committing the taste of his lips to memory, the exact way they felt against her own, her fingers almost tearing at the fabric of his shirt.  
Their kisses were nothing holy, nothing worth writing about in romantic stories.  
But it was a divine kind of painful, being reduced to nothing but an aching, ravenous soul.  
_Take me. Claim me, and let me claim you as mine in return. I want nothing but your hands on my skin. I want the memory of you driven through my heart so that nobody could ever remove it. I want the bruises of your kisses never to fade. I want the whole world to know it._  
They toppled backwards onto the bed, Amelia straddling his hips, only breaking their kiss long enough to remove his clothing piece by piece, utterly without shame or reservation, her eyes roaming every inch of newly exposed skin with unabashed hunger.  
_I've waited so long for this. I waited so long to have you._  
He was not far behind, tearing at the fabric of her silken shirt in the desperate need to have her as close as possible, to have nothing between them, to feel her skin on his. He ruined the gilded clasps in the process, but she neither noticed nor cared. Instead, she guided him, fingers in his hair, until he marked the delicate skin of her throat with his teeth.  
At that she let out a cry, sharp and unashamed, tangling her fingers into his hair tighter to hold him against her, almost coming undone then and there.  
_Yes. Mark me - let them see. For all their envious eyes, I wish to be nothing but yours ever again._  
Guided by her hands on his, he undid the laces of her pants, pushing them easily off her hips.  
_In return, only be mine._  
They parted only for so long as was absolutely necessary, their lips meeting anew immediately after, like both of them could breathe only joined.  
There was desperation in the way they explored each-other, rushed and with shaking hands, as if the world might tear them away from each-other at any moment.  
She covered his skin in kisses, marked him as her own regardless of what mark the red already left there. She kissed every scar as softly as she could, traced the lines of his body with gentle hands, memorizing the warmth of him, the shape of him; tangled her fingers in his hair to pull his lips to hers, and he responded in kind, his touch equally eager and tinged with desperation. She delighted in the way he'd gasp her name, in the way he grasped her expensive sheets in a white-knuckled grip as she kissed her way down his stomach, and lower still. It was a personal kind of victory.  
And it was surrender, the way _she_ cried _his_ name when his lips found the most sensitive parts of her, learning and re-learning her slowly as if time were of no consequence, subduing the urgency of his own need, his own desperation, and leaving her with an ache for him so deep that it robbed her of words and thought.  
  
_Your hands around my wrists are the only shackles I will ever again accept. Only to you will I accept to be bound._  
She lowered her lips to his collarbone, to his shoulder, leaving bitemarks in her wake which she soothed with kisses, traced with her tongue.  
_In return, submit to me - I want all that you are._  
_Everything._  
When their bodies finally joined it drew a cry from her - his name - and he forgot how to breathe for a moment, only meeting her burning eyes.  
It was nothing gentle, nothing soft; everything they couldn't say their poured into touch, into kisses, into teeth against skin, the rhythm of their joining hurried and desperate.  
_Devour me. Take all of me, hold nothing back. Ruin me, and remake me anew. Like I was your ruin. I want to remember nothing but your touch, after._  
His grip on her hips tightened enough to bruise, and her name was on his lips like a prayer - it tasted like he imagined forgiveness might, as he gave her all that he was. The way he spent himself in her seemed blasphemous for how holy it felt.  
Seeing him undone was what sent her over the edge, hearing her name from his lips like a gasp, a whispered plea, his heart plain and open in the expression on his face, the parted lips, eyes half-lidded. She kissed him - softly, with reverence - kissed away the vestiges of tears she'd pretend not to have seen, as they were both lost to their joining.  
_Let me never have anything but you, ever again, and I'll be satisfied._  
_I need nothing else._  



End file.
